^MMJNIVFP^' 


.vlOS 


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WOMAN 


WOMAN 


By 
MAGDELEINE  MARX 


Introduction  by 
HENRI  BARBUSSE 


Translated  by  Adele  Szold  Seltzer 


'^ 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 
1920 


Copyright,  1920,  bj 
THOMAS  SELTZEE,  Inc. 


PKINTED  IN  THE  UNITED   STATES  OP  AMERICA 

All  rights  reserved 


INTRODUCTION 

A  splendid  book  in  which  a  soul  lives  so  profoundly 
human  and  so  purely  feminine  that  any  words  of  in- 
troduction seem  leaden  and  intrusive.  You  feel  as  though 
you  were  violating  the  essential  delicacy  and  powerful  life 
of  this  soul  to  comment  upon  the  remarkable  revelation  of 
it  between  the  very  covers  that  contain  the  revelation. 

Yet,  as  a  modest  friend  of  letters,  I  should  like  to 
express  an  opinion  here — the  author  did  not  ask  me  for 
it — and  pay  homage  to  the  brilliant  originality  of  this 
work.  I  want  to  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  saying  how 
important  I  think  it  is. 

It  expresses — and  this  is  a  fact  of  considerable  literary 
and  moral  import — what  has  never  been  exactly  expressed 
before.    It  expresses  Woman. 

The  more  woman  has  been  spoken  about,  you  might 
say,  the  less  she  has  been  revealed.  She  has  been  hidden 
under  a  plethora  of  words.  The  supreme  vision  rising  up 
out  of  these  pages  is  as  luminous  as  a  heavenly  revelation. 
From  the  author's  tone,  so  simple  and  penetrating,  you 
perceive  that  women  feel  differently  about  the  things 
that  we  men  see  and  proudly  proclaim. 

The  thought  and  spirit  of  Woman  will  be  a  surprise 
and  a  shock  to  the  old  masculine  traditions,  in  which 
women  also  acquiesce,  probably  because  of  their  old  tra- 
ditions of  slavery.  But  we  know  that  always  and  every- 
where the  opposition  such  thought  arouses  is  sublimely 
lacking  in  truth. 

Here  is  a  woman  who  cries  out  with  magnificent  im- 
pressive sincerity  against  the  fallacy  of  the  maternal  in- 
stinct— the  "call  of  the  blood" — against  the  exclusive- 
ness  of  love ;  who  knows  and  asserts  that  death  kills  only 
the  dead,  and  not  those  who  are  left  behind;  who 
recreates  in  new  forms  the  law  and  the  creed  of  the 
relations  between  man  and  woman,  motherhood,  and  suf- 
fering. And  this  new  expression  of  woman — a  new 
expression,  therefore,  of  the  whole  of  life — this  striking 

V 

(lyC  *•>:•►  «j»*> 

LIBRARY 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

gospel,  young  and  strong,  which  overcomes  artificial,  un- 
natural ideas,  resounds  at  the  very  time  when  woman  is 
at  last  entering  humanity  and  is  preparing  to  change  her 
role  of  breeder  of  children  and  handmaid  in  common. 

The  book  is  strictly,  religiously  objective.  Everything 
is  perceived  only  through  the  eyes,  the  mind,  the  heart 
of  the  "heroine" — the  word  usage  thrusts  upon  us  for 
this  woman  who  has  no  name,  who  is  just  truly  herself. 
Through  the  commanding  will  of  the  author  the  creative 
richness  of  the  book  springs  altogether  from  the  mag- 
nificent oneness  of  a  human  being.  No  outside  ap- 
proach mars  this  unity.  In  no  other  book  perhaps  so 
markedly  as  in  this  has  the  integrity  of  an  individual 
been  more  respected,  and  never  has  an  imaginary  char- 
acter so  consistently  warded  off  whatever  is  not  of  itself. 
You  don't  even  seem  to  feel  that  this  "Woman"  talks  or 
tells  a  story.    You  simply  know  what  she  knows. 

And  because  of  this  very  fact,  this  intimate  association 
which  unites  us  jealously  with  this  one  being  of  all 
others,  the  book  is  poignant  and  moving.  A  world  is 
born  beneath  our  eyes.  In  some  scenes,  short  or  long 
but  always  important  and  vital,  a  tragedy  shudders, 
and  the  entire  succession  of  the  events,  of  life,  ordinary 
and  on  a  big  scale,  passes  in  the  book  in  clear  outline,  in 
essential  poetry. 

To  say  this  is  to  say  that  the  author  is  a  master,  that 
her  technique  is  subtle,  that  the  action  concentrates  all 
the  dramas  of  the  world  in  one  spiritual  drama,  and  the 
book  reveals  a  prodigious  gift  for  presenting  a  whole  of 
vast  impressions  which  creates  unity. 

Woman  does  not  belong  to  any  class  of  writing;  it 
is  not  tied  down  by  any  formula ;  it  does  not  lower  itself 
by  imitating.  It  is  a  powerful,  a  rebel,  a  virgin  work, 
and  it  ranks  Magdeleine  Marx  among  the  loftiest  poets 
of  our  age. 

HENRI  BARBU8SE. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   I 


PAGE 


Being  Born .       i 

BOOK    II 
Being 71 

BOOK   III 
Becoming 151 


vu 


BOOK   I 

BEING   BORN 


THE  sun  was  beginning  to  shine. 
I  had  been  walking  and  walking.   .    .    . 

I  had  just  left  the  brambly  path  which  cuts  a 
bed  of  sand  through  the  forest,  laying  bare  its 
rusty  bowels. 

I  felt  full-fed  by  the  subtle  nourishment  that 
space  distils,  crammed  with  air,  and  my  forehead 
seemed  drawn  taut.  Was  it  the  motes  dancing 
in  the  sunbeams?  I  don't  know.  I  was  spent. 
The  fancy  throbbed  beneath  my  temples,  did  its 
work,  and  I  let  it  go. 

You  must  have  been  sincere  at  least  once  in 
your  life  to  know  what  an  hour  is  face  to  face  with 
yourself,  a  whole  hour,  step  by  step,  minute  by 
minute.  And  I  never  had  been  sincere.  Now  I 
escaped  from  my  clogging  limbs,  from  the  clay 
of  myself.  Until  now  I  had  done  nothing  but 
breathe  and  sleep.  All  of  a  sudden  I  was  alive. 
It  was  intoxicating.   .    .    . 

Dizzy  though  I  was  I  felt  an  exhausting  need 
to  keep  on  going. 

I  penetrated  deep  into  the  woods  walking  at 
random,  my  mind  almost  a  blank.  When  the  leafy 
undergrowth  enclosed  me,  I  let  myself  slide  to  the 
ground  on  to  the  dried-up  grass,  the  fallen  twigs, 
and  the  crackling  russet  pine-needles. 

All  about  in  a  dense  circle,  the  rugged  plant 

3 


4  WOMAN 

life.  A  moving  splendor  in  the  play  of  the  vary- 
ing greens.  Damp,  aromatic  smells.  And  a  sense 
of  invisible  swarming  life  everywhere.   .    .    . 

The  silence,  so  fresh  and  penetrating,  was  like 
a  living  thing,  and  I  turned  round  several  times 
thinking  I  heard  some  one  behind  me  panting. 
No  one.  The  uneven  trunks  of  the  great  trees; 
lower  down,  beliind  their  serrated  green,  a  slate- 
colored  screen  of  mist;  here,  the  shadow-broid- 
ered  ground;  above,  the  patches  of  blue  sky — 
and  I. 

I  .    .    . 

I  was  a  little  ashamed  to  link  my  Self  to  myself 
in  this  way,  to  give  my  Self  its  value.  The  old 
attitude  of  humility,  of  attaching  no  importance 
to  Self — was  that  going  to  begin  again!  Now  I 
felt  more  profoundly  alone  than  in  the  harmo- 
nious exaltation  I  had  experienced  while  walking. 
In  a  mixture  of  alarm  and  idleness  I  tried 
not  to  remain  motionless,  but  to  plant  my  elbows 
on  the  ground  and  lie  flat  on  the  grass  with  my 
head  between  my  hands,  so  as  to  divert  myself 
mth  living  noise   ...  I  could  not. 

Then  I  stretched  out  on  my  back,  my  eyes  fixed 
on  the  sky,  my  body  relaxed ;  and  the  full-blooded 
tide  of  my  thoughts  flowed  over  me. 

They  flowed  on,  of  themselves,  no  longer  halt- 
ing, as  they  had  on  the  walk,  on  the  edge  of  each 
discovery;  I  no  longer  kept  saying  to  myself  as 
when  I  hammered  out  my  pitiless  steps :  "I  have 
lied,  I  have  always  lied,  I  have  lived  only  on  the 
outskirts  of  my  life."  .   .   .  The  air  was  still, 


BEING  BORN  5 

the  soul  alone  sounded,  and  the  soul  also  was  at 
peace.  I  went  down  into  the  depths — to  find  the 
soul's  sweet  beginnings,  I  suppose. 

There  were  no  beginnings.  Though  my  early 
memories  came  back  obediently,  they  were  not 
illuminating.  The  catechism.  .  .  .  With  out- 
.  stretched  hands  and  rounded  voice,  the  Abbe  Dau- 
dret  was  telling  of  the  wicked,  those  whom  the  Al- 
mighty was  waiting  to  punish  in  the  hereafter. 
Crushed  by  the  word  wicked,  stifled  by  the  heavy 
solemnity  of  the  church,  withdrawn  into  my  little- 
ness, I  comprehended,  with  dull,  recurring  pangs, 
that  I  was  among  the  damned,  I,  the  model  little 
girl.  We  went  home  again ;  I  was  calm,  unruffled, 
obedient,  but  if  any  one  used  the  word  sin- 
ful in  my  hearing,  if  I  came  across  it  threatening 
in  black  and  white,  I  felt  as  if  a  brutal  fist  had 
struck  my  shoulder;  I  blushed,  a  swift  remorse 
flamed  in  my  bowels ;  that  word  was  meant  for  me, 
/  was  the  guilty  one. 

At  last  one  day  I  found  out  why  I  was  guilty. 
I  had  not  known  before. 

I  had  been  summoned  to  the  small  drawing- 
room;  the  shutters  were  closed;  my  mother,  a 
dim  figure  in  the  twilight,  was  saying  good-bye 
to  a  lady  in  deep  mourning  whose  veil  framed  a 
face  of  alabaster.  How  beautiful  she  was !  The 
quivering  shadows  made  a  halo  around  her.  I 
scarcely  dared  to  approach  her  because  I  remem- 
bered the  whispers  that  buzzed  about  her  name 
and  the  envy  that  glittered  in  the  eyes  of  the 
women.    How  beautiful  she  was !  .  .  .  Her  heavy 


6  WOMAN 

lashes  weighed  down  her  lids.  ...  I  wanted  to 
say  something  to  her,  just  one  word.  I  could  not, 
could  not  even  repeat  what  my  mother,  leaning 
towards  me,  told  me  to  say.  ...  As  the  lady 
was  leaving  she  turned  in  the  doorway,  fixed  her 
great  wide  eyes  on  me  and  said  with  an  even  sad- 
der note  in  her  velvety  voice :  *  *  The  child  is  going 
to  be  beautiful." 

I  heard  myself  exclaim  with  joy.  As  soon  as 
the  dooi^  closed,  I  ran  to  the  glass,  which  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  me.  My  whole  being  was  aflame 
as  I  raised  myself  on  tiptoe  to  receive  the  first 
echo  of  her  words  from  the  mirror.  .  .  .  But  my 
mother  was  already  coming  back  and  saying  se- 
verely: "You  know  it  isn't  true."  ...  I  was  still 
on  tiptoe.  "You  are  ugly!"  My  spirits  dropped 
and  instantly  were  bottled  up  in  me.  Everything 
was  clear,  I  understood,  I  understood.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  epitome  of  my  life.  The  seasons 
passed;  I  maintained  silence,  always,  hiding  my 
good  qualities,  hiding  my  bad  qualities,  encounter- 
ing only  remorse  between  the  two  extremes; 
for  it  is  by  remorse  that  they  are  joined  together. 

Consequently  my  mind  stored  up  no  happening, 
no  deeper  or  fainter  impression,  only  remorse. 
Bemorse  never  left  me. 

But  yes,  it  did  leave  me,  just  now,  suddenly, 
at  the  bend  of  the  road,  where  the  bank  slopes 
gently  down  to  the  ditch,  when  I  bowed  my  head 
to  the  thought,  "They  think  me  gentle,  simple, 
just  like  the  others ;  they  say  I  am  cleverer.    It  is 


BEING  BORN  7 

only  because  I  dissemble  more  than  the  others." 

At  that  I  raised  my  eyes. 

*'What  after  all  does  my  lying  matter  to  them? 
Do  they  want  the  truth?  No.  They  spurn  it, 
scourge  it,  hunt  it  down.  They  are  not  worth 
trying  to  find  out  the  truth  for.    Enough." 

The  sunsliine  seemed  to  tighten  its  clutch  on 
the  earth  and  whitewashed  the  pathway. 

"But  it  is  not  this  matter  of  lying  that  one  must 
bewail;  the  point  is,  there  is  an  essential  some- 
thing else.  There  is — I  feel  there  is — the  true  life, 
my  life,  and  it  is  this  true  life  that  I  have  be- 
trayed. My  true  life  is  now  pushing  on,  bravely, 
along  the  gray  stony  path.  ...  I  don't  know 
where  it  is  going,  nor  what  it  is,  since  I  have 
never  seen  it  in  anything  that  I  have  done,  but 
it  must  live.  If  I  die  for  it,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? It  will  live  on.  It  was  hidden  in  my  body, 
it  stayed  there  ashamed  of  itself,  then  came  at 
night  to  beset  me  with  its  sadness  and  put  me 
to  sleep  with  the  taste  of  dust  and  ashes  on  my 
lips;  and  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  my  eyes 
opened,  was  it  the  light  that  flooded  over  me, 
painted  the  walls  of  my  room  with  flame,  and  in- 
stantly died  away?" 

The  blue  density  of  the  forest,  the  corrugated, 
soaring  columns  of  the  trees,  high  and  distinct 
in  their  parallel  lives,  the  clear  quivering  azure 
are  all  around  me.    Where  is  their  obscure  will? 

I  have  come  to  these  things,  I  have  lain  down 
in  their  midst,  I  have  watched  them.    Before  these 


8  WOMAN 

things  one  no  longer  lies.     And  behold,  I  find 
myself. 

I  see  myself  as  I  am. 

My  heavy  hair,  flame-colored,  which  gives  out 
little  glints  of  light  above  my  forehead,  my  com- 
plexion with  the  mother-of-pearl  coloring  of  the 
full  daylight,  the  violet  reflections  in  my  eyes 
deepened  by  the  scanty  shade  of  the  trees,  the 
firm  red  line  of  my  lips,  and  beneath  my  light 
dress,  the  fleet  suppleness  encased  in  my  limbs. 

Is  it  possible?  I  am  no  longer  ashamed  to  be 
like  this,  nor  to  hioiv  what  I  am  like.  I  have  let 
fall,  at  last,  like  a  bothersome  mask,  the  modest 
air  that  makes  people  say:  "She's  all  the  prettier 
because  she  doesn't  know  she's  pretty." 

Do  you  think,  pray,  that  there  is  a  single 
woman  in  the  world  who,  if  she  is  good  looking, 
doesn't  know  it? 

I  know,  I  know  with  a  vengeance,  that  I  am 
beautiful;  I  know  it  better  than  anything  else 
about  myself.  There  are  not  only  looking-glasses, 
there  are  all  the  men.  Whether  old  man,  beggar, 
or  chance  passerby,  you  drink  in,  in  one  long  in- 
toxicating draught:  "I  am  beautiful."  And  the 
women,  if  you  know  the  terror  in  their  eyes,  the 
appeal,  the  eiivj,  and  their  mute  defense.  .  .  . 
You  seem  unaware,  smiling,  distant,  but  you  are 
on  the  eager  watch  for  the  pain  you  inflict. 

To  please  ...  In  the  presence  of  other  people 
to  please  is  wicked  vanity,  strutting,  flaunting 
vanity;  but  here,  on  the  bony  ground,  it  is  sim- 


BEING  BORN  9 

ply  a  bit  of  me.  It  is  a  power  which  has  been 
given  me,  I  shall  not  give  it  back;  it  is  merely 
a  harmony,  a  response  to  the  beauty  I  feel,  a 
craving  to  convince,  a  very  strong  craving;  my 
life  is  lovelier  than  I. 

My  life  is  here.  But  what  makes  up  my  life? 
Not  entirely  my  rosy  good  health,  nor  this  firm 
eqailibrium  which  exercises  control  in  the  centre 
of  my  being.  My  health  and  poise  are,  chiefly,  the 
things  that  remove  me  from  my  life.  My  life  is 
a  need  to  use  my  muscles,  it  is  vigorous  move- 
ment, it  is  the  notion  I  have  that  I  can  crush  the 
world  between  my  arms ;  yes,  the  longing  to  run, 
to  take  part  in  everything,  to  shout  aloud,  to 
dance;  this  animal  ardor  and  glow  in  movement, 
this  uncontrollable  blood,  this  body  swelling  with 
liberty,  with  sap,  with  bursts  of  laughter,  this  un- 
expected gift  of  myself  to  myself,  this  curiosity 
and  contentment,  this  zest  and  turmoil.   .    .    . 

I  have  heard  others  speak  of  youth,  I  have 
seen  the  word  of  quicksilver  glitter  on  the  pages 
of  books;  I  am  still  ignorant  of  its  meaning;  I 
am  not  quite  twenty. 

I  hug  to  me  all  that  is  mine;  it  is  not  much. 
At  first  there  was  nothing  above  my  head  but  a 
liquid  ocean  of  silence,  I  saw  nothing  but  a  forest 
without  perspective,  but  my  watchful  solitude  be- 
came supernatural ;  and  now  as  I  see  the  solemnity 
of  the  trees,  their  strong  solid  reaching  up  towards 
heaven,  as  I  see  myself,  I  feel  very  deeply  that  J 
am  alive  for  the  first  time. 

I  do  not  wish  to  think  of  the  future.    Let  the 


10  WOMAN 

future  wait  for  me;  it  is  as  if  a  new  era  were 
beginning.   .    .    . 

And  may  memory  never  take  possession  of  this 
morning  of  utter  unreserve ;  memory  might  distort 
it.  And  may  memory  never  say:  ''This  was  the 
day  of  your  birth  and  you  were  excited." 

I  am  not  unduly  excited.  .  .  .  The  present  is 
always  very  simple.  The  sun  is  only  an  iridescent 
frolic,  which  flits  and  laughs  without  resting  on 
the  chapped  bark  of  the  pines. 

This  moment — this  and  none  other — is  made  up 
of  my  robust  body,  the  lullaby  rustle  of  the  wind- 
stirred  leaves,  the  fragrance  of  resinous  wood, 
the  screech  of  a  great  bird,  and  the  sky  cleft 
by  its  black  and  white  passage. 

No  illumination  or  help  from  elsewhere.  Slow- 
ly, gropingly,  by  great  effort,  I  arrive  at 
lukewarm  moments  in  which  it  is  as  though  my 
head  were  leaning  on  my  heart.  Am  I  going  to 
know  at  last  and  make  up  my  mind?  But  when 
I  put  my  hand  on  my  breast,  everything  collapses 
and  I  have  to  begin  all  over  again. 

It  is  because  there  is  an  empty  past  which  rings 
to  the  touch  like  an  empty  bowl,  a  lack  of  practice 
which  benumbs  your  arms,  a  sort  of  shame  .  .  . 
You  don't  attain  to  your  real  truth  at  the  first  at- 
tempt. 

And  then  above  all — you  must  be  honest  with 
yourself — you  don't  seek  your  true  self  with  a 
constant  heart;  far  oftener  you  try  to  distract 
your  mind  from  the  thought  of  it.  About  me  on 
the  ground  are  patches  of  light,  and  I  am  simply 


BEING  BORN  11 

bent  upon  catching  them.  I  stretch  out  my  hand, 
stoop  down,  put  my  cheek  to  them,  they  quiver 
and  vanish;  in  their  place  a  piercing  warmth 
steals  dancing  over  my  face. 

Then,  \\ithout  my  having  done  anything  and 
"vs-ithout  my  being  worthy  of  it,  the  sacred  mood 
of  revolt  returns,  lifts  me  up,  and  forces  me  to 
my  knees;  I  hear  the  rising  breath  of  a  sudden 
call   •    .    . 

Is  it  my  life,  0  God?  Whither  does  it  go — 
answer ! — when  it  develops  in  a  deep  breast,  and 
you  approach,  again  and  again,  as  I  am  now 
approaching,  something  infinite  whose  name  you 
seek  to  know? 


II 


Will  the  noise  never  stop  ?  But  there  are  walls 
to  shut  it  out. 

Let  them  hop  about,  shout,  dance,  amuse  them- 
selves. As  for  me,  I  have  left  them,  I  am  alone 
in  my  room,  I  don't  want  to  see  or  hear  them  any 
more. 

I  burrow  my  head  desperately  in  the  dark 
depths  of  the  cushions.  In  vain.  The  eddying 
music  follows  its  implacable  course,  drapes  its 
arabesques  of  melody  about  me,  and  when  I  stop 
my  ears,  still  keeps  whirling  round  and  round. 

A  mazurka.  Who  was  it  begged  for  a  mazurka? 
Ah  yes,  I  remember.  When  I  left  the  group  of 
young  girls  sitting  on  the  watch,  a  quivering  bas- 


12  WOMAN 

ket  of  artificial  flowers,  one  of  them  was  saying : 
"After  the  mazurka,  I'll  take  him  out  into  the 
garden,  where  I'll  manage  to  make  him  kiss  me." 

Which  of  them?  It  is  easy  to  imagine  her:  they 
are  all  alike.  She  laughs,  I  am  certain,  and  ex- 
pands her  budding  breasts ;  her  beaded  tunic  spar- 
kles and  strikes  a  rivulet  of  light  against  her 
pretty  legs ;  she  has  glossy  hair  faultlessly  dressed 
and  when  she  turns  round  in  the  mazurka,  you  see 
she  has  one  of  those  plump,  discreet  faces  over 
which  feelings  slide  without  leaving  a  mark. 

But  I  am  forgetting.  Mother  had  to  take  part 
in  the  dance  too,  as  it  was  the  only  one  she  knew 
and  it  unrolled  tender  memories.  She  braced  her- 
self, then  started  off,  her  features  gently  com- 
posed, leaning  on  my  father,  who  accommodated 
his  step  to  hers  while  seeming  to  guide  her. 
"Let's  see,  that's  not  it  .  .  . "  and  they  set  out 
again — one,  two,  three,  four — heavy,  both  of  them, 
with  their  reputation  as  a  happy,  united  couple, 
and  laden  with  the  looks  that  follow  them. 

If  one  knew  .   .   . 

The  engaged  couples  have  disappeared,  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  nearest  dark  corners,  where  pas- 
sion is  of  scarlet  and  nothing  exists  but  arms 
and  lips  and  bodies  surmised.  When  the  music 
will  have  finished  and  they  will  have  reappeared, 
the  chatter  and  the  sharp  raw  laugh  of  the  young 
fiancee  will  be  heard ;  she  will  open  her  eyes  wide, 
like  this ;  her  childish  mouth  will  be  seen,  and  her 
slim  figure,  which  retains  an  air  of  awkward  shy- 
ness.    "How  unsophisticated  she  is,"  they  wiU 


BEING  BOBN  13 

say  in  gratitude  to  her  for  being  an  example  of  the 
velvety  purity  of  the  young  girls. 

The  last  measures.  They  are  all  perspiring, 
out  of  breath,  soberly  triumphant,  and  as  they 
go  back  to  their  chairs  each  man  gives  a  last 
squeeze  of  the  slender  arm  he  is  about  to  relin- 
quish. 

My  father  is  entirely  engrossed  in  his  guests ; 
he  has  led  mamma,  dizzy,  back  to  her  chair,  and 
has  moved  off.  As  she  sits  there  with  her  eye- 
lashes fluttering,  you  would  think  she  has  re- 
turned from  a  wonderful  long  journey.  ''I  am 
happy,  happy,"  she  is  reflecting.  "I  have  such 
a  good  husband."  The  wounds  of  every  day  are 
closed — ^they  have  to  be  overlooked — and  if  any 
cloud  darkens  the  horizon,  it  is  that  she  is  think- 
ing of  me:  ''But  that  is  what  marriage  means, 
my  little  daughter;  you'll  see,  it  is  just  a  big  re- 
nunciation :  you  will  change,  you  too,  and  do  like 
the  rest;  look  at  me;  am  I  unhappy?" 

No,  you  are  not  unhappy,  my  poor  little  mother, 
with  your  injured  voice,  your  charitable  eyes,  and 
your  lifeless  gestures;  you  are  dead;  it  is  twenty 
years  since  you  have  had  a  will  of  your  own,  a 
desirous  look,  a  single  manifestation  of  impa- 
tience, a  stray  impulse,  an  hour,  anything  you  can 
call  your  own;  it  is  twenty  years  since  you  re- 
nounced. But  your  husband  never  goes  out,  he  has 
his  wife  and  children,  he  earns  your  living,  a  com- 
fortable living;  everyone  respects  him,  and  ''one 
cannot  have  everything." 

As  for  you,  you  can  live  contentedly  with  a 


U  WOMAN 

twenty-year-old  unhappiness  upon  your  shoul- 
ders; you  breathe,  you  go  about;  the  women 
around  you  have  the  same  fate,  and  this  sustains 
you.  But  we,  mother,  who  are  different,  the 
daughters  of  my  generation,  we  who  have  sensual 
hearts,  reasoning  minds,  new  energies — I,  who 
have  done  nothing,  I  cannot,  I  tell  you,  and  if  a 
future  is  given  me,  I  want  to  snatch  whatever  it 
holds. 

The  music  has  stopped;  I  cannot  hear  them 
any  more  .  .  .  It  is  as  if  my  heart  were  begin- 
ning to  live. 

The  tangible  darkness  of  the  room  deepens 
little  by  little.  Its  peace,  its  solitude.  I  can  dis- 
tinguish the  walls,  or  rather  the  vaporous  shad- 
ows of  walls,  the  windows  where  the  cold  light 
of  the  garden  is  paling,  the  indistinct  rectangle 
which  stretches  along  the  ceiling  .  .  .  and  in  that 
silence  in  which  God  is  rooted  is  the  hunted  soul 
returning  to  its  place. 

Ah,  shattered  again!  The  music  sets  the  hub- 
bub going  .    .    . 

Besides,  certain  words  are  too  beautiful,  and 
you  say  them  to  intoxicate  yourself,  but  when  they 
are  gone,  you  realize  your  arms  are  empty. 

I  asked  myself:  ''AVliat  is  youth?"  This  is 
what  youth  is:  that  terrible  thing,  that  sin,  that 
torture  which  one  must  stifle:  it  is  my  pure  in- 
toxication defiled  by  their  impure  intoxication. 
I  wanted  to  sing  my  youth,  give  it  out,  exhale  it. 
Jeering  life  is  below,  with  its  people,  its  fouling 
habits,  its  sneers  and  titters.     They  were  quite 


BEING  BORN  15 

right;  you  can't  escape  it.  You  must  adapt  your- 
self to  it;  it  is  the  law.  I  will  adapt  myself;  I 
will  have  a  husband;  he  will  be  kind,  faithful; 
there  vnW  be  no  one  beside  him;  he  will  be  all 
in  all  to  me ;  he  will  skirt  the  shores  of  my  being ; 
he  will  pronounce  judgment  on  all  my  actions, 
my  comings  and  goings,  my  looks ;  his  word  will 
be  final.  I  shall  lie  in  his  bed  every  night;  he 
will  see  my  timid  body,  my  naked  sleep,  my  sleep- 
ing life ;  he  will  stand  upright  in  my  life  as  in  a 
garden  which  one  is  not  afraid  to  ravage,  and 
when  truth  will  pass  by  us,  he  will  sit  still  and 
let  it  pass. 

I  shall  have  no  more  confused  desires,  no  more 
sudden  impulses  of  kindliness,  no  more  agonized 
expectancy,  and  no  more  of  those  questionings 
which  make  a  stifling  desert  about  me.  I  shall  be 
satisfied.  If  my  hell  returns  at  times  to  visit  me, 
that  red-eyed  narrow-chested  hell,  my  husband 
will  be  there,  seated  opposite  me  at  table ;  he  will 
raise  his  head.  ''What's  the  matter,  aren't  you 
hungry!" 

The  soul,  the  essence,  the  deep  voice  from  with- 
in— words,  mere  words  .  .  .  There  is  nothing 
but  the  noise  below.  And  only  that.  And  I  must  re- 
turn to  it.  Well,  come  on,  go  down,  speak,  smile. 
All  existences  are  alike.  When  there  is  no  longer 
a  single  lie  left  to  tell,  it  means  the  time  has  come 
to  die. 

Why  obstinately  wish  to  discover  a  way  out  and 
knock  your  head  against  a  stone  wall?  There  is 
no  way  out,    You  must  not  cherish  the  impossible ; 


16  WOMAN 

get  up  and  go  gaily  downstairs.  A  little  cold 
water,  a  little  powder ;  this  is  a  grief  you  are  not 
permitted  to  indulge  in. 

Once  again  and  for  all  time  I  shall  go  to  them. 
If  they  are  boisterous,  spineless,  unobservant, 
with  no  warmth  in  them,  perhaps  after  all  at  some 
time  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they  have  felt,  if 
only  vaguely  and  vanishingly,  the  jealous  fever 
which  weighs  like  a  heart ;  perhaps  they  have  suf- 
fered ;  perhaps  in  looking  back,  when  the  sunshine 
has  burst  forth,  they  have  understood  that  the 
period  of  their  twenties  was  sacred.  The  twen- 
ties !  And  we,  the  youth,  say  to  ourselves :  wisdom 
is  within  us,  the  future  is  within  us,  and  reason, 
salt,  blood,  the  truth.  It  is  ourselves,  only  our- 
selves. And  we  wish  to  open  our  hearts  and  say 
to  those  who  pass : ' '  Come  to  us,  ask  us.  It  is  from 
us  that  everything  can  be  learned ;  we  can  explain 
the  secret  things,  the  inner  meanings,  the  words 
hidden  in  the  folds  of  the  body,  the  startling  con- 
fessions that  are  breathed  on  the  highways,  every- 
thing that  is  changeful,  for  nothing  is  permanent 
but  change;  we  know  everything,  and  more  than 
everything;  we  who  have  never  loved,  we  know 
the  whole  of  love."  Perhaps  they,  the  dancers 
downstairs,  have  stretched  out  their  arms,  tasted 
the  fresh  morning  with  their  lips,  felt  the  beating 
of  a  heart  of  sobs ;  perhaps  they  have  once  been 
their  hope.  I  shall  do  what  they  have  done ;  it  is 
my  turn;  my  time  for  withering  will  surely 
come  too. 


BEING  BOBN  17 

The  farandole!  Ah,  they  are  holding  each 
other's  hands,  the  old  folks  are  also  joining  in. 
"Let's  enjoy  ourselves!"-  Their  faces  are  tense, 
and  above  their  footsteps  and  above  the  avalanche 
of  their  bodies,  I  hear  the  shrill  cries  of  the  young 
girls. 

They  are  leaving  the  drawing-room;  it  sounds 
as  if  they  were  approaching. 

Don't  come  here.  Even  if  it  is  dark  in  this 
room,  even  if  I  have  wept,  and  even  if  the  walls 
have  taken  on  this  aspect  of  distress,  it  does  not 
mean  that  I  can  be  reduced  to  your  level. 

The  galop  moves  faster,  wilder.  The  chain  in 
the  center  is  flung  together  in  a  heap,  those  at 
the  end  are  almost  scattered.  The  last  one  waves 
his  arm  in  the  air.    The  noise  sickens  me. 

The  floor  of  my  room  quivers.  I  will  go  down, 
I  will  go  down  to  them  .    .    . 

But  not  yet  .   .   . 


Ill 

It  is  done  .   .    . 

How  shall  I  bring  myself  to  believe  it,  how  tell 
myself  it  is  true,  that  it  is  done,  that  it  is  an  ac- 
complished fact?  And  why  is  it  that  an  absurd 
recollection  obsesses  me  instead  of  the  thing  that 
has  just  taken  place?  Eecollections  are  not  con- 
siderate. They  thrust  themselves  upon  you  willy- 
nilly.  ...  It  was  one  day  when  I  was  still 
little   and  wore  my  hair  in  a  plait   down  my 


18  WOMAN 

back  tied  with  a  red  ribbon.  An  idea  struck  me 
and  set  me  all  a-quiver,  to  surprise  my  mother 
by  secretly  filling  her  vase  with  flowers,  the  beau- 
tiful blue  vase  with  the  band  of  gold,  erect  on 
its  massive  pedestal  like  a  slim  thing  on  a  throne. 
I  was  very  careful,  I  held  my  breath,  my  move- 
ments were  sedulously  controlled  .  .  .  The  vase 
toppled  and  made  a  clear,  ringing  sound.  I  can 
still  hear  it.  My  father  came  in  unexpectedly. 
He  stopped — he  always  was  severe — took  me  by 
the  shoulder,  and  shook  me  like  a  wind-tossed 
sapling.  Then  he  dragged  me  to  my  room  and 
on  the  threshold  gave  me  a  slap  which  sent  me 
staggering.  There  was  a  whistling  in  my  ears. 
I  was  drunk,  dazed,  completely  bewildered.  .  .  , 
Then  he  shut  the  door. 

When  I  came  to  my  senses,  I  ran  to  the  glass,  I 
don't  know  why,  for  nothing,  "just  to  see."  A 
wine-colored  mark  streaked  with  red  was  spread- 
ing over  my  cheek.  I  held  the  back  of  my  hand 
up  and  felt  the  glow  even  without  touching  it. 

It  was  burning,  but,  oddly  enough,  it  did  not 
hurt.  I  was  conscious  of  not  suffering  pain,  and 
instantly  a  sadness  filled  me,  utter  and  sudden  as 
a  bitter  flood.  I  didn't  know  why  I  was  sad.  Even 
now  I  only  glimpse  the  reason  imperfectly.  Chil- 
dren who  are  simple  are  also  more  subtle  than 
we.  It  was  my  fate  to  be  defrauded,  not  to  have 
a  definite  reason  for  shedding  tears  over  myself, 
not  to  suffer  in  real  earnest  from  an  undeserved 
punishment,  not  to  be  able  to  cherish  the  compen- 
sation or  possess  the  impregnable  asylum,  the  in- 


BEING  BORN  19 

exhaustible  resource  that  grief  always  is.  It  was 
when  I  touched  my  cheek  which  did  not  hurt  that 
I  threw  myself  on  my  bed  crying,  alone,  yes  really 
alone  for  the  first  time.  And  to-night  it  is  just 
the  same  way. 

I  have  run  away  from  home.  Here  I  am  cast 
out  on  the  street  in  the  night.  There  is  a  fine 
blinding  sleet;  I  do  not  know  as  yet  where  I  am 
going  to  spend  the  night,  but  that  doesn't  hurt 
any  more  than  the  slap  on  my  cheek  hurt.  Am  I 
unfeeling?  I  push  on  straight  ahead,  the  houses 
follow  one  another,  the  streets  meet  and  cross, 
the  separate  shadows  are  only  one  and  the  same 
shadow.  I  stop  now  and  then  arrested  by  the 
consciousness  of  having  forgotten  to  suffer. 

I  have  been  walking  a  good  hour. 

How  penetrating  the  night  is.  An  hour  of  utter 
aloneness,  an  hour  empty  and  bare.  Ah,  that 
it  may  be  so  until  the  end.  Let  misery  come, 
the  unknown,  humiliations,  but  let  the  truth  come 
also.  You  perish  trying  to  do  without  the 
truth  .    .    . 

That  scene  .  .  .  Can  the  memory  of  it  be 
annihilated,  so  that  nothing  remains,  not  even  the 
grotesque  memory  of  a  memory? 

He  blazed  with  fury;  he  lashed  the  air  first 
with  one  arm  then  the  other;  his  features 
swelled  with  rage  and  suddenly  looked  youth- 
ful. .  .  .  Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
he  looked  exactly  the  same  as  on  the  day  of 
the  blue  vase,  only  this  time  he  did  not  dare  to 
slap  me.    That's  why  he  gesticulated  so  wildly. 


20  WOMAN 

I  listened  to  him  at  first  with  an  indifferent  air; 
I  was  accustomed  to  his  storms — well,  the  thing 
would  soon  blow  over.  And  before  my  eyes  the 
familiar  scene,  which  the  lighting  up  of  the  chan- 
delier always  placidly  ushered  in,  was  being  set 
according  to  the  daily  ritual — the  smoking  tureen, 
which  Leontine,  who  had  entered  with  her  padded 
tread,  was  placing  on  the  table  (she  removed  her 
red  hands,  finger  by  finger,  and  stole  her  sidewise 
glance  at  me),  and  the  transparent  play  of  the 
glasses,  with  iridescent  stems  giving  back  the 
glitter  of  the  silver  and  the  white  sheen  of  the 
tablecloth. 

Although  my  eyes  were  occupied  in  following 
intently  the  details  of  the  dinner-table,  a  heavy 
travail  was  going  on  within  me.  A  legion  of  slum- 
bering desires,  halting  impulses,  dead  aspirations 
were  rousing  themselves  noiselessly,  almost  with- 
out my  consciousness.  Thoughts  that  come  in  the 
morning  when  one's  eyes  open,  '^  To-day!  to-day," 
hopes  dashed  to  the  ground,  deceptions,  sighs — 
their  tune  rose  to  the  surface  and  changed  to  a 
peal  which  drew  me  on.  Yet  I  remained  on  the 
spot,  like  a  beast  with  lowered  head  led  by  a  rope. 

I  saw  his  gesture  in  time. 

He  was  advancing  towards  me,  his  fist  raised. 
Did  he  mean  to  strike?  What  did  it  matter?  I 
was  no  longer  in  a  condition  to  judge.  A  roll  of 
thunder  was  shivering  my  inner  trouble  into  a 
thousand  bits,  there  was  a  flash  of  lightning 
which  unloosened  everything,  even  my  tongue.  I 
was  speaking,  I  was  speaking  at  last  .    .    . 


BEING  BORN  21 

What  did  I  say?  Really,  almost  nothing,  be- 
cause in  the  frantic  swiftness  of  his  anger  he 
broke  in  upon  my  first  words.  "Get  out,  get  out ! ' ' 
He  showed  me  his  hand  as  if  he  were  cursing  his 
hand,  too,  forever. 

The  door  closing  behind  me  made  a  very  long 
and  very  impressive  sound. 

I  was  on  the  landing  of  the  staircase.  No  sound. 
The  electric  light  cruelly  exaggerated  the  red 
spiral  of  the  carpet  and  touched  each  copper  bar 
of  the  banisters  with  a  tiny  comet. 

Alone. 

And  suddenly  .  .  .  what  did  it  all  mean?  I 
no  longer  understood.  That  outburst  of  cries, 
that  tempest,  that  sort  of  comedy,  my  reply  .  .  . 
"what  ...  I  went  and  sat  down,  tempted  equally 
to  laugh  and  to  cry.  I  wanted  to  think  .  .  .but 
it  was  already  done,  an  almost  outside  force  w^as 
pushing  me  off  my  hinges.  "Escaped!"  I  was 
like  a  prisoner  who  sees  the  door  left  open  inad- 
vertently. 

I  knocked  gently,  my  entire  presence  of  mind 
returning  to  me  in  a  rush.  Leontine  came  with 
a  pseudo-contrite  expression  and  an  air  of  saying 
* '  Hush ! ' '  while  beneath  her  manner  was  the  con- 
centrated delight  of  an  animal  lying  in  wait. 
"They  are  atl  dinner,"  she  whispered  while  I  got 
my  things  together,  a  frock,  a  blouse,  some  toilet 
articles,  a  little  money,  some  linen,  a  few  books. 

I  closed  the  front  door  on  myself,  slowly,  with- 
out faltering,  slowly.  It  was  done.  It  was  not 
difficult. 


22  WOMAN 

A  faint  wind  blew  from^the  street  below  which 
chilled  me.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  are  trembling  already, 
you  are  drawing  back.  That  fine  courage  of  yours, 
where  is  it?  Where  is  your  all-powerful  will, 
and  your  still  surer  hope !   .    .    . 

It  was  not  out  of  cowardice  that  I  was 
trembling;  but  as  I  advanced  towards  my 
Self,  street  by  street,  house  by  house,  through  my 
first  ordeal,  I  got  a  blunter,  deeper  knowledge  of 
my  Self,  and  a  sudden  fear  entered  my  breast. 

I  am  really  not  a  strong  person.  What  had  been 
struggling  in  me  so  forcibly  was  not  my  own 
strength;  it  was  simply  the  reaction  from  the 
others.  A  strong  person  would  know  at  the  very 
first  step  what  mandate  to  derive  from  the  power 
animating  him;  before  destroying  he  would  have 
built  up.  When  a  bird  finds  its  cage  open  and 
takes  flight,  it  does  not  hesitate,  it  has  the  idea 
of  space,  it  spreads  its  wings,  it  knows  where  to 
fly,  and  how  high. 

I  know  nothing.  I  am  setting  out,  that's  all.  , 
Neither  before  nor  behind  me  is  the  irresistible 
urge  which  is  the  start  of  a  great  career.  Nor  do 
I  see  close  by  the  rising  shape  of  my  life.  Nor 
about  me  is  the  ringing  mirth  of  faery  liberty. 
Nothing  but  a  little  tiredness,  a  little  emptiness 
in  my  head,  a  little  emptiness  in  my  heart  .  .  . 
I  am  not  a  strong  person. 

Good-bye,  mother,  good-bye  to  your  transparent 
eyes,  to  your  shoulders  which  will  always  shrug 
for  the  wrong  side,  good-bye  to  your  tender  lying. 

You  see,  I  am  no  longer  faint-hearted,  because 


BEING  BORN  23 

I  can  walk  away  from  you  forever  and  venture 
upon  a  vague  future  without  a  glow  of  eagerness. 
All  I  need  is  something  to  beckon  to  me.  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  ahead  of  me  except  the  quiet 
artery  of  a  thoroughfare  hemmed  in  by  inky 
houses  and  the  darkness,  which  melts  away  at 
the  panes  of  the  street-lamps  and  makes  them 
dance  and  quiver  below  and  twinkle  like  eyes  at 
the  top.    Liberty  has  the  taste  of  fog.   .    .    . 

BOARDING-HOUSE 

Shall  I  cross  this  unfriendly  threshold  covered 
with  a  mangy  rug?  I  should  so  much  like  to  stop 
walking  and  go  to  sleep.  Shall  I  choose  this  house 
which  exhales  the  smell  of  a  cellar,  this  gloomy 
shelter,  these  dingy  walls'?    Shall  I   .    .    . 

Come  on,  fate  is  everjrwhere.  This  is  the  place 
I  must  enter. 


IV 


I  have  found  work  .    .    . 

A  fortnight,  a  hundred  hopes,  a  fortnight  .  .  . 
The  unfriendly  atmosphere  of  stiff  faces.  "The 
position  is  filled."  Stairs  mounted  four  steps  at 
a  time,  then  descended  gravely,  catechisms  begun 
with  questions  that  embarrass  and  so  often  end- 
ing with  questions  that  make  you  blush.    Then  one 


24  WOMAN 

fine  day — ^by  what  magic? — the  position  is  not 
filled,  and  you  answer  yes  to  everything  required ; 
the  sky  is  clear,  you  will  start  to-morrow. 

I  have  not  drained  to  its  dregs  the  joy  there 
is  in  working  at  my  nondescript  job  from  morn- 
ing until  evening.  To  work  for  your  bread,  to 
feel  dignified  and  straight.  You  cannot  talk, 
to  be  sure,  but  at  least  you  do  not  lie,  you  are 
in  repose,  you  let  the  waves  of  your  being  pile 
up,  and  every  evening  you  return  to  a  docile  home, 
where  the  silence  is  always  nigh  to  flowering  .  .  . 

The  boarding-house,  however,  is  not  hospitable ; 
you  never  satisfy  your  hunger,  and  my  narrow 
room  with  its  threadbare  carpet  and  mouldy  ceil- 
ing is  like  a  badly  kept  cage.  But  it's  Sunday 
morning  and  I  have  undertaken  to  make  it  invit- 
ing. 

A  handkerchief  twisted  about  my  hair,  a  white 
blouse  and  bare  arms  .  .  .  By  persisting  and 
rubbing  again,  by  chasing  the  dust,  by  trying  a 
place  for  the  books  twenty  times  over,  by  pushing 
the  chairs  about,  by  scraping  away  the  layers  of 
encrusted  filth,  I  am  bound  to  triumph.  To  judge 
lof  the  effect,  I  stop  several  times  and  perch  on 
the  tattered  arm  of  the  red-flowered  armchair; 
the  place  looks  better  already.    But  to  it  again! 

No  pictures,  no  ornaments.  I  have  taken  down 
the  sentimental  prints  hypocritically  concealing 
the  scars  of  the  wall-paper.  Nothing  but  the  bare 
room  and  the  high  window  with  its  dim  panes. 

The  bed  of  a  doubtful  mahogany  burrows  into 
the  bashful  retreat  of  the  alcove.    The  wardrobe 


BEING  BORN  25 

would  wabble  if  it  were  not  secured  by  a  thick 
rope  tied  to  the  rosette  on  the  front.  The  rosette 
is  typical  of  a  curious  character  that  the  room 
has  for  all  its  dinginess.  There  was  an  attempt 
to  decorate  with  a  profusion  of  flowers.  Flowers 
everywhere,  spread  broadcast  over  the  walls, 
cutting  off  the  comers  of  the  wash-boards,  and 
trailing  their  sallow  procession  in  a  border 
around  the  top  of  the  walls.  They  are  even  woven 
into  the  stuff  on  the  back  of  the  armchair,  they 
appear  almost  effaced  in  the  maroon-colored  lino- 
leum, and  ravelled  out  and  faded  in  the  cretonne 
curtains  ...  In  this  cemetery,  the  sweet  violets 
blooming  on  my  table  have  a  sensual,  almost  in- 
solent splendor;  their  petals  look  red. 

For  all  its  bareness,  my  room  radiates  light; 
the  meagre  sunlight  shines  in  through  the  window 
and  is  already  transfiguring  the  place;  I  feel 
comfortable  in  it. 

Oftener  and  oftener  I  ask  myself  what  is  my 
reason  for  existence,  my  true,  my  sole  destiny. 
Doubtless  one  must  sleep  in  a  room  for  a  long 
time  before  encountering  the  soul  that  prepares 
itself  there. 

I  am,  I  know,  like  a  person  who  wants  to  build 
a  big  house  without  having  a  site  or  materials, 
who  says  nevertheless:  ''No,  not  this  site,  no,  not 
this  material."  But  this  is  of  no  importance,  I 
realize.  Once  you  have  submitted  to  the  whole- 
some discipline  enjoined  by  poverty,  you  receive 
in  return  energetic  muscles  and  a  patient  outlook. 


26  WOMAN 

I  wait ;  and  no  longer  having  any  need  to  com- 
plain or  criticize,  I  wait  with  a  smile.  Everything 
is  simpler  than  one  thinks,  and  everything  is 
easier,  and  it  seems  to  me  that — 

Someone  is  knocking  at  the  door. 

''May  I  come  in?" 

The  landlady,  Mme.  Noel. 

Mme.  Noel  is  more  of  an  imp  than  a  woman. 
She  has  the  figure,  the  voice,  and  the  darting  ro- 
guishness  of  a  slim  young  thing  of  twelve. 

When  I  was  getting  settled  the  first  morning, 
I  suddenly  heard  her  insect-step  close  by— I  had 
left  my  door  open — and  without  giving  me  time 
to  draw  back,  she  besieged  me  with  questions : 

"How  old  do  you  think  I  am?" 

*'I  don't  know." 

*' Guess  anything." 

''Thirty-four  .    .    .  thirty-three  .    .   .  thirty." 

On  looking  at  her  closely  a  few  seconds,  it 
seemed  to  me  she  was  probably  forty. 

"Fifty-two,  my  dear!"  To  convince  me  of  her 
age  she  stuck  her  finger  under  a  slab  of  hair  waved 
and  dyed  red  and  actually  exposed  an  abundance 
of  fading  white  hair. 

Her  face  was  no  bigger  than  a  fist,  with  cheeks 
like  baked  apples.  Her  shrewd  naked  eyes  pried 
about.  She  came  farther  into  the  room  and 
perched  lightly  on  one  of  my  rickety  pieces  of 
furniture,  balancing  it  with  her  body.  Then  she 
began  to  unfold  the  story  of  her  life,  rummaging, 
unpacking,  digging  it  up  by  huge  armfuls :  her  hus- 
band, her  lover,  and  then  another,  a  painter  she 


BEING  BORN  27 

adored.  The  first  one  came  back.  .  ,  ,  Love,  ad- 
ventures. .  .  .  So  it  is  possible  to  speak  about 
your  love  and  adventures  ? 

Before  leaving  me — I  was  quite  dazed;  •which 
must  have  been  evident — lowering  her  voice  a 
little :      . 

''He  is  so  good  ...  I  myself  am  not  crazy 
about  him,  but /te  loves  me  so   .    .    ." 

^'He?" 

"The  boarding-house — it  is  not  only  for  what 
it  pays,  you  understand.  It's  for  the  company!" 

"The  company?" 

With  the  springy  elegance  of  a  cat,  her  tapering 
elbows  breaking  the  evenness  of  her  outline,  Mme. 
Noel  slid  on  to  the  bed.  The  mattress  reared  up, 
the  coverings  billowed,  the  pillow,  struck  slant- 
wise, was  about  to  fall.  But  she  needed  so  little 
room,  and  she  carefully  patted  the  hollow  she 
made  for  herself. 

"Well,  is  there  nothing  you  want?  .  .  .  Ah, 
these  young  things — a  handkerchief  round  their 
heads  and  they  still  look  pretty." 

Instinctively  I  pulled  off  my  handkerchief.  I 
stammered:  "To  keep  aff  the  dust"  and — what 
could  I  do  to  make  her  go? — I  smiled  awkwardly. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  I  came  near  forgetting  to  tell 
you.  If  .  .  .  you  want  to  receive  in  your  room 
.  .  .  after  all,  what  of  it?  You  surely  have 
somebody  .  .  .  It's  just  between  us  womem.  A 
beautiful  girl  like  you,  it  would  be  a  shame  .  .  . 
You  won't  be  bashful,  will  you?  To  me  love  is 
sacred.     And  you  will  tell  your  little  secrets  to 


28  WOMAN 

Mme.  Noel  ?  I  have  told  you  mine.  Only  of  course 
you  will  be  careful  not  to  make  any  noise.  I  say 
this  on  account  of  the  Russians  in  the  next  room. 
They  used  to  receive  swarms  of  people  up  to  all 
hours.  The  rumpus !  I  tell  you,  I  put  a  stop  to 
it.  But  you,  you're  different.  I  liked  you  from 
the  start." 

I  had  to  answer,  I  was  going  to  answer  .  .  . 
but  my  tongue  was  dry  with  confusion.  Besides, 
how  edge  a  word  in?  There  she  was  back  at  her 
huge  pile  of  love  stories.  She  even  tried  to  pump 
me,  lifting  and  lowering  her  powdered  little  nose ; 
one  scrap  of  information  she  set  aside  for  use 
presently.  At  last  she  disappeared  trippingly 
with  a  pointed  au  revoir  which  crisped  the  hide 
of  her  cheeks. 

An  odor  of  imitation  white  lilac  persists,  but 
so  much  sunshine  streams  in  through  the  open 
window,  so  many  quickening  exhalations  that  the 
odor  will  soon  be  dissipated. 

Love  .    .    .  yes  .    .    . 

Perhaps  by  listening  hard  to  the  inner  voice  you 
may  get  to  let  it  speak  out  loud.  If  I  give  in 
to  this  habit,  I  want  to  hear  myself  say:  "I  do 
not  like  love."  I  even  want  to  add:  ''Keep  it 
away,"  because  love  seems  to  be  an  outside  force 
which  smites  or  spares  without  your  having  de- 
served or  banished  it. 

I  have  seen  too  many  couples  in  which  the  man 
is  nothing  but  a  craving  for  conquest,  the  woman 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  but  a  need  to  be  con- 
quered.   I  have  seen  too  many  who  have  not  been 


BEING  BORN  29 

visited  by  grace  and  have  damned  themselves  to 
mutual  ruin.  A  veritable  attack  and  a  semblance 
of  defence.    I  have  seen  what  is  taken  for  love. 

I  have  seen  women  steeped  in  trickery;  the 
wilier  they  were  the  more  love  surrounded  them. 
I  have  seen  the  heavy  looks  of  men  set  about  every- 
where like  traps  ...  I  am  worth  nothing  as  yet, 
but  my  sound  heart — I  refuse  it.  And  I  say  it 
quite  low  to  exorcise  the  invisible  danger :  I  do  not 
like  love. 

**  To  me  love  is  sacred  .    .    ." 

I  understand  fully  what  those  small,  naked,  pry- 
ing eyes  were  glorifying.  And  in  the  adventurous 
life  of  those  eyes  I  see  neither  more  nor  fewer 
blemishes  and  lies  than  in  the  eyes  of  the  young 
girls.  Neither  more  nor  fewer.  At  moments 
there  even  flashed  in  those  eyes  sparks,  reflections, 
gleams   .    .    . 

A  cloud  is  darkening  the  window;  my  room  is 
obliterated. 

But  if  by  leaning  forward  and  boldly  offering 
my  face  to  the  sun  and  stretching  out  further, 
I  could  take  in  all  his  golden  bounty  and  all  his 
light? 

I  withdraw  hastily  from  the  springtime  window 
because  when  a  gentle  flame  ran  over  my  wrist  I 
became  aware  of  lack  of  dignity :  my  untidy  hair, 
the  dust  on  me,  the  disorderly  room. 

Since  the  sun  lives,  since  I  long  for  it,  love 
must  exist.  I  shall  find  the  proof  of  it.  Quickly, 
my  Sunday  frock,  order  about  me,  flowers   .    .    . 


30  WOMAN 

Keep  it  far  away  from  me.     I   do  not  feel 
I  am  ready  .    .    . 


Trade's  twenty-fourth  birthday.  Twenty-four 
candles  around  the  monster  of  a  cake.  Trude 
announces  that  Edda,  the  youngest  of  us,  is  to 
light  the  candles  when  we're  ready  for  the  toasts 
and  the  dessert. 

I  lent  my  vases,  my  old  red-flowered  armchair, 
and  my  draperies.  This  morning  when  the  prepa- 
rations were  completed  and  their  voices  in  triple 
unison  leapt  to  me:  ''Come  and  look!"  I  was 
in  the  room  in  three  bounds  like  an  answering 
echo. 

It  really  looked  nice.  Who  would  have  recog- 
nized Clara's  impossible  room?  Heavy  ropes  of 
foliage  dotted  with  roses  festooned  the  walls,  my 
beautiful  blue  stuff  entirely  hid  the  toilet-table, 
flowers  covered  the  mantelpiece  and  starred  the 
corners  of  the  mirror ;  and  the  table  covered  with 
a  white  cloth  was  gay  with  pyramids  of  fruit. 

Now  the  guests  are  all  here  except  Markowitch, 
who  said  beforehand  he  would  be  late.  "I  am 
not  going  to  seat  you,"  Clara  cries  to  them  above 
the  rising  hubbub.  "Choose  your  own  places." 
And  she  turns  her  back  to  give  the  last  touches 
to  the  table.  Her  heavy  braided  knot  hangs  low 
on  the  nape  of  her  neck.  In  spite  of  the  two 
spreading  wings^oPher^kirt  at  her  waist  line  she 
looks  thinner  than  ever  in  her  greenish  dress. 


BEING  BORN  31 

Someone  glides  up  beliind  her,  a  pink  arm  for  an 
instant  twines  about  her  waist.  ''Clara,  can  I 
help?"    She  turns  round.    Dahlia. 

Dahlia  is  not  an  ordinary  creature;  she  is  no 
one ;  she  is  the  young  girl.  But  that  really  is  say- 
ing nothing.  Juliet  and  Miranda  are  dead;  our 
times  are  not  made  for  a  creature  of  the  dawn  who 
is  supposed  to  be  finer  than  the  promise  of  herself, 
but  who  is  already  herself;  who  is  supposed  not 
to  be  ignorant,  who  is  pure  and  who,  in  order  to 
love,  does  not  await  love. 

Dahlia  comes  of  another  age;  she  comes  from 
the  country  of  fjords  and  legends.  Her  father 
was  exiled,  she  wanted  to  go  with  him,  they  had 
no  money;  they  made  almost  the  whole  journey 
on  foot.  One  evening  when  their  heavy  limbs 
would  carry  them  no  further,  they  were  stranded 
in  a  squalid  quarter  on  the  outskirts  of  Paris. 
They  took  a  room  .  .  .  The  next  day  the  man 
did  not  get  up.  And  since  then  Dahlia  has  bowed 
her  head  to  the  yoke  and  works  all  day  long  for 
a  poor  monthly  wage  in  an  office  where  the  walls 
press  upon  her  like  a  vice.  "It's  to  keep  up  my 
father's  spirits,"  she  said  with  a  shake  of  her 
head  when  I  saw  her  the  second  time. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time.  I  had  come 
in  a  little  later  than  usual,  and  probably  more 
tired,  too.  I  did  not  even  think  of  lighting  the 
lamp,  the  dusk  was  unreal  .  .  .  heavens !  .  .  . 
a  vision  took  shape  between  the  threshold  and  the 
shadows,  scarcely  daring  .  .  .  There  was  a  brow 
set  in  pale  gold,  the  delicate  blur  of  a  face,  eyes 


32  WOMAN 

like  a  thousand  forget-me-nots;  between  two 
young  arms  the  strait,  retiring  modesty  of  the 
angels,  and  their  light  movements  also.  She  drew 
nearer.  ' '  We  have  made  a  cake,  the  sort  we  make 
at  home,  let's  divide."  She  disappeared.  Her 
present  remained  behind  on  my  table.     . 

In  her  thin  linen  dress  this  evening,  with  a  whiff 
of  paradise  about  her,  Dahlia  seems  to  be  en- 
veloped in  a  pink  illumination.  She  smiles  on 
everybody  as  one  must  smile  at  happiness  when 
one  catches  a  glimpse  of  it. 

''Your  beautiful  red  dress,"  she  assures  Trude, 
gently  clasping  the  soft  spindles  of  her  hands. 

How  can  Trude  remain  simple  and  genuinely 
Puritanical  beneath  her  trappings  of  beaded  crim- 
son plush  and  cuirass  of  some  hodgepodge  of  gold 
caught  in  at  the  hips.  I  fancy  she  is  too  simple  for 
finery  to  add  to  her  personality.  Eeal  or  imitation 
the  fineries  give  way;  it  is  she  who  adorns  them. 
Whatever  she  wears  is  sanctified  and  comes  to 
resemble  her,  everything  except  her  threefold 
name,  Gertrude,  Trude,  Trudel. 

She  has  the  peculiar  brilliance  of  the  Eussians, 
sombre,  subterranean,  almost  undefinable.  What- 
ever she  does,  whether  she  laughs,  or  is  ex- 
cited, or  talks  with  fire  of  ordinary  things,  she 
always  has  a  finger  lifted  in  the  air  and  her  wide 
gaze  raised  Christ-like.  She  has  the  mouth  of  an 
evangelist.  Her  irises  set  in  clear  white  have 
glints  of  jet.  She  wears  the  glossy  foliage  of  her 
black  locks  straight  back  from  her  forehead,  an  in- 
tense forehead  crowning  her  like  a  diadem  .    .    . 


BEING  BORN  33 

What  other  woman  would  dare  the  supreme  im- 
modesty of  displaying  a  bare  forehead?  What 
woman  Avould  gain  by  doing  it?  The  strange 
thing  is,  Trude  is  beautiful  only  by  a  kind  of  mir- 
acle; the  least  little  bit  more,  and  her  cheeks 
would  stick  out  over  the  cheekbones  of  a  Tartar ; 
the  least  little  bit  less,  and  her  nose  would  be  oblit- 
erated. The  lakes  of  her  eyes  tranquilly  conceal 
the  raging  waves  in  their  depths.  How  many, 
by  a  shade  of  ill-luck,  have  escaped  beauty?  Trude, 
by  a  miracle,  has  escaped  ugliness. 

Mania,  her  sister,  so  different  with  her  agile, 
insinuating  body,  lovingly  fingers  the  presents. 
* '  You  have  not  seen  everything,  Trude.  Do  come. ' ' 
Books,  prints,  china,  and  elegant  embroidered  ar- 
ticles— pretty  things  all  from  poor  people  who 
will  soon  be  setting  out  on  foot  in  the  darkness 
for  their  distant  lodgings  in  order  to  save  carfare. 
For  we  are  all  as  poor  as  poor  can  be.  Except 
Markowitch.  Mania  told  me  he  was  ''immensely 
rich,"  had  at  least  two  hundred  dollars  a  month 
spending  money. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  it  is  our  poverty  that 
creates  this  comradeship  among  us.  You  come  in 
and  you  feel  at  ease,  you  feel  good,  you  love  all 
of  them,  even  Lonnie,  the  little  Swiss  with  cheeks 
lacquered  with  rouge,  and  even  Michael  with  his 
tight  compressed  nose  peaking  out  of  the  profile 
of  a  hen — Michael  perhaps  more  than  the  others. 

So  much  the  worse  for  Markovitch :  we  are  go- 
ing to  begin.  The  hubbub  dies  down  a  little; 
everyone  finds  a  place,  two  on  the  same  chair,  some 


34  WOMAN 

on  the  bed,  a  good  many  on  the  floor,  young  men, 
young  girls  holding  each  other's  hands,  so  close 
together,  so  pure,  that  I  can  still  not  accustom  my- 
self .    .    . 

"It  is  your  turn,  Mania." 

A  song,  liquid,  then  fiery,  comes  from  among 
the  reeds  and  carries  you  far  off — down  there — 
to  those  wild  plains  chiseled  by  the  wind  where 
the  streams,  driven  to  the  surface  and  threshed 
by  their  rocky  beds,  have  the  fury  of  torrents. 
What  a  potency  of  attention  on  these  serious 
faces ! 

Isn't  that  Markovitch? 

''Come  in!" 

With  his  hardened  features  wrought  in  granite 
he,  too,  is  a  force.  His  bulbous  eyes  search  the 
gathering  and  find  what  they  are  looking  for  .  .  . 
Dahlia  raises  her  head,  blushes,  and  is  veiled  in 
delicate  purple  up  to  the  golden  edge  of  her  hair. 
She  is  aware  of  the  love  of  this  great  spoilt  boy ; 
we  are  all  aware  of  it;  but  she  has  refused  to 
be  his  wife  because  she  does  not  love  him.  He 
will  not  speak  of  it  again ;  nevertheless  they  con- 
tinue to  meet  straightforwardly.  With  a  free, 
rounded  movement  of  her  arms,  like  the  handles 
of  an  amphora,  she  points  to  a  vacant  place  beside 
her.  "Here."  Then  in  dismay:  "Don't  make  a 
noise." 

Prikoff  is  telling  of  a  childhood  recollection. 
You  seem  to  see  him  as  both  the  fantastic  gnome 
and  the  father  in  the  tale.  You  see  huts  assailed 
by  icy  blizzards,  hazy  visions  of  bodies  blue  with 


BEING  BOBN  35 

cold,  love  of  somewhere  else  .  .  .  Despite  his 
huge  jaw  and  unkempt  mass  of  hair,  what  benign- 
ity, mildness,  and  gentleness.  It  is  as  though  he 
were  talking  to  little  children  gathered  close  about 
him. 

Is  time  passing?  No  one  notices  it,  we  have 
forgotten  it.  Time  escapes  youth  gathered  to- 
gether and  bound  in  a  sheaf;  it  escapes  Clara's 
bosom  from  which  a  plaintive  lied  is  rising,  while 
the  hungry  hands  around  Dahlia,  who  is  doling 
out  the  manna,  make  time  tarry.  A  real  poor 
folk's  supper,  the  supper  of  persons  who  are  hun- 
gry at  all  hours.  Thick  slices  of  rare  meat  on 
bread,  solid  pastry,  big  bright  fruit.  One  should 
see  these  robust  young  girls  munching  even  the 
meat. 

How  fond  I  am  of  them  all!  Among  them  I 
feel  for  the  first  time  what  the  human  voice  really 
is;  for  the  first  time  feel  the  warmth  which  is 
shared  and  communicated  from  being  to  being, 
which  makes  of  a  single  entity  a  group  of  entities, 
of  a  field  of  separate  ears  of  corn  the  human  har- 
vest. 

I  wouldn't  know  how  to  choose  among  them. 
But  one  of  the  young  men  might  slightly  frighten 
and  disconcert  me;  his  accent  might  seem  bar- 
barous. My  trim  dress,  my  too-dainty  shoes,  and 
my  fluffy  blouses,  all  the  things  that  constitute 
my  element,  might  cause  me  to  feel  compunction. 
And  maybe  too  I  might  feel  ashamed  of  the  hour 
I  spend  every  morning  anxiously  pressed  close  to 
the  glass  af?  if  I  were  begging  myself  to  be  beau- 
tiful. 


36  WOMAN 

I  should  have  the  same  feeling  on  behalf  of 
the  girls  as  for  myself;  at  bottom  I  do  not  dis- 
criminate between  men  and  women.  I  should  go 
even  further.  If  friendship  drew  me  to  one  of 
them,  my  compunction  would  change  to  grief. 
Eeally,  can  one  forgive  Clara  her  over-trimmed 
dress  conceived  in  a  nightmare?  Can  one  forgive 
all  of  them  their  down-at-heel  shoes,  the  lack  of 
care  and  regard  for  others  that  they  show  in 
their  appearance? 

Should  I  adjust  my  days  with  no  ups  and  downs 
in  them  to  their  volcanic  days?  "What's  it  all 
coming  to?"  cries  Trude  sometimes,  and  throws 
herself  on  her  bed  sobbing  and  losing  herself  in 
her  emotions.  Time  passes  and  dies — one  day, 
two  days — suddenly  she  rises.  She  has  forgotten 
her  office,  her  meals,  everything.  She  leans  her 
forehead  against  the  window-pane,  and  her  tears 
flow  bitterly. 

If  we  became  intimate,  would  they  forgive  me 
my  neat  room,  my  punctuality,  my  scrupulous  ad- 
herence to  rule  and  system,  my  moderation  in 
everything?  In  the  first  days  of  our  being  neigh- 
bors they  used  to  say:  "You  know,  the  little 
Frenchwoman  who  always  comes  and  goes  at  the 
same  time  and  makes  so  little  noise  and  uses  pow- 
der?" That  quite  described  me. 

This  evening  of  the  reunion  of  these  serious 
creatures  runs  on  by  leaps  and  bounds  and  rises 
to  a  pitch  by  fits  and  starts.  There  is  a  glowing 
dewiness  about  Dahlia;  Markovitch  follows  her 
with  the  green  pupils  of  his  bulbous  eyes.    And 


BEING  BORN  37 

all  of  a  sudden  the  whole  company  is  fired  at  the 
same  time.  Without  expecting  to  they  burst  into 
song — who  threw  the  spark? — and  the  room  lights 
up  like  a  hearth  all  aglow  with  voices.   .    .    . 

Fifteen  flames  mingled,  but  only  a  single  flame. 
It  is  a  song  that  rages  and  mounts  higher,  and 
jerks  and  jolts,  and  is  convulsed  with  raucous 
shouts,  in  which  the  joy  becomes  frenetic  and 
the  laughter  has  a  shudder  in  it.  They  bring  to 
their  singing  the  fervor  and  the  earnestness  of 
application  that  they  bring  to  everything. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  retreat  of  the  little  chimney- 
piece  hidden  from  their  eyes,  and  I  should  like 
to  ask  their  forgiveness  for  not  knowing  their 
fervid  song  and  not  being  in  harmony  with  them. 
I  should  like  to  ask  pardon  of  all  of  them  for 
everything. 

I  should  like  to  ...  I  should  like  to  .    .    . 

Breathes  there  a  human  being  on  earth  who  has 
nothing  to  forgive,  whom  one  has  nothing  to  for- 
give? .    .    . 

To  be  with  him,  his  equal,  close  to  him,  face  to 
face  with  him,  and  alone  with  one. 

VI 

The  two  Lfoiseaus  and  I  were  sitting  in  their 
dining-room,  a  narrow  rectangle  with  waxed  floor 
and  small  straw  mats  here  and  there  exactly  like 
a  convent  parlor. 

The  evening — a  dark  evening  out  of  doors — 


38  WOMAN 

encompassed  the  walls  with  mystery.  The  darker 
it  grew  the  less  we  felt  like  getting  np  and  light- 
ing the  lamp.  Why  bother  after  all?  There  was 
a  whole  grate  full  of  flames.  They  leaped  and 
emitted  a  lively  red  crackling,  shot  forth  lumi- 
nous circles,  hung  high  in  the  hearth,  dancing 
tongues  of  fire,  orange-colored  mountain  crests, 
aigrettes  of  blue  light,  grimaces  of  demons  .  .  . 
whirlpools  .  .  .  fairyland  .  .  .  crash  and  col- 
lapse  .    .    .   foolery  .    .    . 

All  of  us  felt  drowsy,  each  imprisoned  in  his 
own  silence.  The  shadows  quivered  gently  above 
our  shoulders.  The  silence,  a  trifle  stagnant  ema- 
nating from  the  three  of  us,  seemed  to  be  com- 
pressed up  under  the  toned-down  white  of  the 
ceiling. 

I  was  curled  up  in  front  of  the  hearth,  my  eyes 
at  the  mercy  of  the  glowing  surge,  my  chin  thrust 
forward.  A  languid  sense  of  well-being  spread 
all  around,  played  over  the  hollow  of  your  arms, 
and  padded  the  nape  of  your  neck:  you  thought 
of  nothing. 

The  two  Loiseaus  are  people  who  know  how  to 
be  silent;  you  spend  Friday  evening  with  them, 
and  everything — except  themselves — tells  you  that 
they  are  pleased  with  the  presence  that  makes 
three  silhouettes  dance  in  the  room. 

•They  are  not  very  old,  but  there's  no  denying 
they  are  old  bachelors,  because  in  their  company 
you  don't  feel  the  torturing  constraint  and  em- 
barrassment which  the  others  make  you  feel  be- 
cause you're  a  woman. 


BEING  BORN  39 

When  you  come,  they  hold  out  their  hands  good- 
naturedly.  Eemy,  the  great  big  patient  Remy, 
takes  my  hat,  my  gloves  rolled  into  a  ball,  and 
my  cloak.  He  steps  on  my  cloak  and  is  vaguely 
alarmed.  This  adds  to  his  confusion,  and  when 
he  hangs  my  things  on  the  rack  in  the  hall  he  is 
so  awkward  in  his  carefulness  that  my  hat  rolls 
to  the  ground.  We  sit  down  and  talk  of  the  office 
— you  cannot  start  by  not  talking — and  when  every 
topic  is  exhausted,  I  suggest  making  tea,  a  sug- 
gestion well  worth  the  making  just  to  rouse  the 
gourmand  look  in  the  old  boys'  eyes.  ''Oh  yes, 
some  tea."    You  can  almost  hear  them  purr. 

I  busy  myself  with  an  ease  become  superlative. 
It  is  possible  that  for  an  instant  I  find  myself  a 
woman  again  between  two  attentive  men,  con- 
verted into  the  household  goddess — she  who  per- 
forms the  rites  and  dispenses  the  food  and  offers 
the  milk,  just  a  thimbleful,  while  the  men's  eyes 
are  upon  her  as  she  bends  over  the  cups.  This 
constrains  my  movements  and  makes  me  tread 
more  lightly  and  mince  my  steps.  I  scarcely  dis- 
place the  shadows. 

My  two  old  friends ! 

Remy  pursues  his  reading  with  a  frank  absorp- 
tion which  dominates  his  whole  body.  His  heavy 
forehead  bulges,  his  clenched  fists  form  two  un- 
defined cubes  on  the  page.  Migo  (when  I  look 
at  him  I  call  him  Migo,  too),  rolls  his  ciga- 
rette. This  evening  he  is  inclined  to  be  talkative. 
He  rubs  up  his  memory : 

''The  first  day  you  came  to  the  office  what  a 
timid  manner  you  had." 


40  WOMAN 

The  recollections  play  upon  an  irresistible  note. 
Eemy  emerges  from  his  comer,  his  good  blue  eyes 
rising  to  the  bait;  a  vision  hung  on  a  thread, 
persons  long  faded.  And  it  must  be  confessed 
that  all  three  of  us  let  ourselves  be  captured;  the 
same  smile  widens  our  features. 

The  door-bell  rings  .    .    .  Yes,  it  rang. 

The  triple  peal  sends  our  heads  apart.  Remy 
rises,  hostile  and  resigned.  He  is  always  the  one 
to  open  the  door. 

Waiting  in  every  circumstance,  even  when  noth-  j 
ing  is  at  stake,  is  painful.    The  spirit  recoils  and 
contracts,  and  space  is  left  for  thoughts  of  an 
inevitable  misfortune  and  for  the  twinkling  vision 
of  the  things  which  disappear.    In  a  single  instant  | 
life  can  completely  change  its  aspect.   .    .    . 

A  sweeping  draught.  It  brings  in  the  voice  of 
a  young  man.  I  want  to  leave.  The  two  Loiseaus 
hover  about  him.  "What  a  surprise !  How  nice !" 
They  rub  their  hands.    "Come  in  and  sit  do-\vn!" 

It  is  too  late  to  leave ;  the  stranger  is  already 
bowing  to  me,  and  the  mingled  exclamations  pretty 
well  hide  my  stammering.    I  am  so  ashamed  of  ^ 
myself  for  stammering. 

The  newcomer  seats  himself  near  the  fire  on 
the  little  black  chair  to  the  right  of  Migo.  He 
wants  the  lamp  to  stay  unlighted.  But  it  is  no 
longer  the  same.  Our  silence  has  been  routed, 
and  the  languor,  and  the  warmth  also  .    .    . 

I  am  in  a  good  position  to  observe  him.    How 
old?  Thirty-four,  thirty-five  perhaps.  Is  he  really ! 
handsome?    Hard  to  say.    He  is  too  dark.    His 


:being  born  41 

face  is  strongly  cliiseled,  his  cheeks  sunken,  his 
forehead  hard  as  a  hammer.  The  long  line  of  his 
jaw  lends  refinement  to  his  countenance,  which  is 
lit  by  eyes  fearlessly  open,  in  which  the  gray,  in. 
spots,  seems  steeped  in  phosphorous.  His  ges- 
tures are  repressed  and  rather  commanding.  He 
talks  little,  but  when  he  does  talk  his  fire  con- 
trasts with  the  rarity  of  his  words,  gives  them 
value,  makes  them  seem  to  issue  all  alive  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  while  he  sits  with  his 
body  upright,  as  if  at  a  distance,  the  flicker  from 
the  hearth  enamelling,  then  removing,  the  bur- 
nished black  of  his  hair  ...  I  bethink  myself: 
we  have  not  yet  had  tea.  I  hope  it  will  be  just 
right  this  evening. 

One  by  one  I  take  out  of  their  hiding-place  the 
cups  mth  the  gold  lines,  the  lovely  ones,  the  only 
embroidered  tea-cloth,  the  teapot  with  the  golden 
spout,  and  the  flowers,  wan  in  the  night.  I  set 
the  luxury  of  these  things  on  the  table.  With  my 
head  shrouded  in  the  light-dark  and  my  shoulders 
swathed  in  a  fleece  of  shadow,  how  good  it  is  to 
be  among  them,  screened  by  my  movements,  not 
sitting  but  standing  so  that  I  can  look  upon  the 
happy  trio.  Him  especially.  For  alongside  of 
him,  who  hardly  speaks,  the  two  Loiseaus,  beam- 
ing and  voluble,  seem  suddenly  tame  and  stunted. 

A  pleasant  sight,  quite  new  to  me,  this  group 
of  three  faces  on  which  a  common  childhood 
springs  to  life,  fond  joys  shared  in  the  past,  and 
names  that  are  no  more.  They  have  almost  for- 
gotten that  a  woman  is  present.  This  reassures 
me. 


42  WOMAN 

But  if  he,  when  he  raises  his  eyes  and  sees  me, 
is  going  to  remember  I  am  a  woman  and  turn  to 
me  too  civilly  and  kindle  the  usual  warfare  under 
the  bland  honey  of  the  customary  phrases!  No 
.  .  .  not  he  .  .  .  not  this  man.  He  is  so  frank 
and  so  fine  with  his  two  friends;  what  he  says 
is  so  right,  and  he  speaks  so  directly,  without 
straining  for  effect.     No,  not  he. 

I  offer  each  of  them  a  trembling  cup  which  they 
accept  without  trembling.  Then  I  quickly  with- 
draw again  to  the  protecting  shadow  where  my 
place  is  hollowed  out,  to  listen  to  this  amazing 
presence  which  my  heart  scans. 

He  has  spoken  to  me. 

He  has  spoken  to  me  as  never  yet  a  man  has 
spoken:  without  trying  to  see  or  please  me,  with- 
out any  ulterior  thoughts,  just  as  he  speaks  to 
the  two  Loiseaus,  probably  just  as  he  speaks  to 
himself  when  alone.  It  does  happen,  then,  that 
from  the  depths  of  simple  obscurity,  unexpectedly, 
one  hears  real  words,  real  naked  words  from  a 
man? 

I  answer  in  the  same  good  faith,  I  no  longer  feel 
any  fear  or  the  need  for  self-defence.  I  feel  a 
delight  which  helps  me.  And  the  perfume  of  the 
words  that  rises  from  the  four  of  us — it  is  upon 
him  I  bestow  it. 

From  the  embers  comes  a  live  heat  which  settles 
on  your  cheekbones;  your  neck  unconsciously 
stretches  towards  the  red  point  where  the  conver- 
sation, which  also  crackles  and  sparkles,  rests  its 
centre.     This  stranger  close  to  me  seems  like  a 


BEING  BORN  43 

king  leaning  over  the  edge  of  a  fountain ;  the  light 
carves  his  smile  and  courts  that  familiar  brow 
.    .    .  Is  he  still  a  stranger? 

But  suddenly,  what  time  is  it?  Twenty  past 
eleven!    Time  to  go.    Yes,  yes,  I  must  go. 

At  the  shock  which  brings  me  to  my  feet  the 
whole  group  breaks  up.  They  discuss  who  is  to 
see  me  home,  and  I  have  to  refuse  three  offers 
at  the  same  time. 

Give  me  your  brotherly  hands,  I  want  to  go 
home  by  myself.  And  you,  turn  upon  me  those 
eyes  so  different  from  other  men's  eyes. 

As  I  go  down,  the  stairs  the  fidgety  advice  re- 
peated a  hundred  times,  which  Remy  hurls  at  me 
over  the  banisters  every  Friday,  descends  upon 
my  head.  '* Don't  walk  so  fast,  look  where  you're 
going. ' '  The  last  scraps  of  warning  roll  like  bil- 
liard balls.  Eemy,  old  friend,  have  no  fear,  go  in 
again.  I  am  carrying  away  an  immense  wonder. 
It  is  hurrjang  me  along  in  its  round.  I  want  to 
dance,  to  cry  .    .    . 

Remy's  voice  is  cut  off  abruptly,  along  with  the 
cone  of  light  in  which  the  steps  reeled. 

On  the  street  ...  a  narrow,  formidable 
street,  full  of  a  palpable,  limpid  night. 

Whither  goes  the  volatile  sky  pursued  by  the 
pale  flock  of  clouds?  Whither  go  those  grand 
transports  which  seize  and  overwhelm  you?  Here 
below  there  is  a  man  honest  in  his  voice,  straight- 
forward in  his  look,  a  brotherly  man.  And  I  have 
met  him  I 


44  WOMAN 


VII 


For  the  first  time  I  have  spoken  about  myself 
to  a  living  being.  Not  so  much  in  words  or  details 
or  episodes  as  in  the  profound  desire  to  open  up 
the  depths  of  my  soul  and  finally  give  a  true  view 
of  it. 

To  talk  of  oneself !  That  enigmatic,  incomplete, 
elusive,  warm  thing,  tossed  by  conflicting  currents, 
adding  to  itself  constantly,  this  thing  that  one  is. 
To  say  what  it  is !  .  .  .To  tell  of  it  with  modest 
lips,  with  lids  raised,  with  voice  sure,  with  si- 
lence  .    .    . 

I  should  never  have  believed  in  the  possibility 
of  such  a  boon.  And  in  the  first  minutes  of  our 
being  together  on  Sunday,  I  still  did  not  know  of 
the  possibility. 

Two  weeks  after  the  Friday  at  the  Loiseaus', 
I  was  stamping  my  feet  with  the  cold  in  the  queue 
of  people  waiting  at  the  little  door  of  the  theatre 
to  buy  the  two-franc  seats.  I  happened  to  turn 
and  was  mechanically  studying  the  faces — there 
he  stood  eight  or  nine  persons  away  .    .    . 

My  delighted  gaze  rested  upon  him  so  hard  that 
his  head  turned  compliantly.  He  saw  me,  his 
face  lighted  up.  The  crowd  was  interested,  the 
women  stared  with  their  unabashed  curiosity,  the 
men  joked,  but  not  one  of  them,  you  may  be  sure, 
was  willing  to  budge.  Through  the  interstices 
between  the  hats,  our  cheeks  glowing  with  the 


BEING  BORN  45 

wind,  we  exchanged  greetings,  and  I  divined 
rather  than  heard  that  he  wanted  to  see  me.  It 
was  at  that  moment  that  I  felt  as  if  I  were  flinging 
myself  overboard. 

''Next  Sunday  at  my  house  if  you  likeT^ 

A  strange  current  was  carrying  me  away.  Cer- 
tain prejudices  must  be  deep-rooted.  What  was 
so  extraordinary  about  receiving  him  in  my  room? 
The  fact  that  I  took  the  initiative  of  inviting  him 
seemed  to  be  trumpeted  to  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe;  and  when  his  answer  came  calm  and 
natural,  I  couldn't  continue  to  face  him;  I  had 
to  hide  my  burning  ears  up  against  the  old  gen- 
tleman in  the  greatcoat,  who  fastened  his  mocking 
persistent  faun's  gaze  upon  me.  During  the  con- 
cert I  felt  by  turns  as  if  I  had  committed  a  crime 
and  a  glorious  feat. 

''Two  o'clock,"  I  had  called  to  him. 

I  was  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  by  ten  min- 
utes to  two  everything  was  ready.  The  flowers 
and  foliage  bought  at  market  had  had  time  to 
freshen  up  and  expand.  The  petals  of  the  anemo- 
nes, shut  up  like  a  tight  case  in  the  morning,  were 
spreading  in  a  crown  around  the  big  pompoms  of 
black  pistils.  The  bed  was  successfully  disguised 
by  a  draped  covering,  and  my  room,  all  polished 
and  groomed,  shone  like  a  jewel.  It  looked  really 
homelike.  At  the  last  moment  I  put  on  my  dress 
of  white  woollen  stuff,  the  one  with  the  cord 
girdle  and  elbow  sleeves.  The  hardest  task  was 
the  arranging  of  my  hair.  Not  to  look  untidy 
with  a  fiery  mop  of  a  head,  yet  to  be  a  little  beau- 


46  WOMAN 

tiful,  oh  joy,  beautiful,  to  please  him.  I  set-to 
furiously  on  the  image  in  the  looking-glass. 

Five  minutes  to  two.  Three  little  raps,  three 
moments  of  insensibility,  three  echoes. 

My  hand  trembled  slightly  as  I  held  it  out  to 
him,  and  when  his  gaze  travelled  over  me,  an 
amazing  sense  of  shame  seized  and  chilled  me. 
I  promptly  hid  my  arms  in  my  scarf.  But  my 
terror  was  quickly  dissipated.  He  conveyed  the 
lofty  ease  of  people  of  perfect  simplicity.  He 
was  there  with  all  his  manly  gravity,  all  his  atten- 
tion, and  his  good  smile  imparting  a  sense  of  se- 
curity.   I  felt  his  calm  transfuse  itself  into  me. 

We  sat  down.  I  no  longer  know  how  we  began 
or  by  what  avenue  of  conversation  he  came  to 
tell  me  of  his  crushed  childhood,  his  needy  youth, 
his  mother,  his  studies,  the  present  career  he  had 
chosen  for  himself.  ...  I  listened;  I  followed 
him  from  year  to  year,  from  picture  to  picture, 
from  place  to  place ;  and  within  me  a  larger  and 
larger  void  was  filling  up  with  hopes  and  thoughts 
that  seemed  to  have  dwelt  there  always. 

What  a  flood  of  sweetness,  what  warmth  and 
space,  and  what  ...  I  hardly  breathed  .    .    . 

"Your  turn  .    .    . " 

He  was  sitting  on  my  little  chair  near  the  win- 
dow with  his  back  partly  to  the  light.  From  the 
depths  of  the  armchair,  the  white  fleece  of  my 
scarf  looping  at  my  feet,  I  saw  the  quality  of 
his  gaze. 

My  story  was  not  so  straight  and  consecutive. 
Here  and  there  I  lost  my  way  and  had  to  stop, 


BEING  BOBN  47 

with  nothing  more  to  say.  Nevertheless,  insight 
into  me  kindled  under  his  eyes,  we  advanced  to- 
gether as  happy  and  at  as  even  a  pace  as  if  we 
were  holding  each  other's  hands;  and  my  flimsy 
past  assumed  a  little  weight. 

We  spoke  of  love — you  always  speak  of  love 
when  you  talk  about  yourself — but  without  dis- 
tinguishing it  from  ourselves.  Who  can  say  what 
love  is?  Love  is  I,  it  is  he.  On  the  day  when  I 
shall  love,  love  will  be  changed  and  mil  resemble 
me  and  will  no  longer  be  that  love  of  which  one 
speaks  in  general.  It  will  be  I — I  simply  stirred 
up. 

AVhen  we  were  silent  under  the  influence  of  the 
slack  atmosphere  of  the  room,  we  two  souls  at 
the  same  pitch,  my  gaze  plunged  in  the  creamy 
muslin  of  the  curtains,  I  knew  he  found  me  beau- 
tiful. I  realized  I  was  waiting  for  him  to  say 
so.  I  w^ould  have  hugged  his  words,  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  them  come  from  his  lips  without  covet- 
ousness,  I  should  have  wanted  them  to  be  noth- 
ing but  my  craving  for  beauty  .    .    . 

I  believe  I  closed  my  eyes.  A  loving  alliance 
took  place  between  my  visible  body  and  my  hidden 
being.  I  was  no  longer  divided  against  myself. 
Thanks  to  him  .    .    . 

How  long  did  we  remain  that  way,  grave  and 
smiling,  opposite  each  other?  I  cannot  tell  ex- 
actly .    .    . 

The  flowers  on  the  table  with  widespread  petals 
held  out  their  black  hearts  to  us.  A  gentle  pearl- 
gray  breeze  was  stirring  tJie  curtains. 


48  WOMAN 

He  is  gone,  is  he?  His  going  made  no  break 
or  clash  and  left  no  sense  of  finality.  I  had 
scarcely  felt  him  take  my  hand  when  he  released 
it,  the  doorway  was  empty.  I  returned  to  the 
empty  armchair  in  the  room  ennobled  by  both  his 
absence  and  his  presence,  my  arms  weighed  down 
and  my  spirits  in  eclipse.   .    .    . 

Who  is  speaking?    Who  is  there? 

Mme.  Noel,  the  live  pnppet,  is  sticking  her 
painted  head  in  at  the  door;  the  thread  of  light 
holds  it  as  in  a  snare.  She  here  at  this  moment! 
.  .  .  One  impatient  start  and  I  go  over  to  her. 
''My  compliments,  a  handsome  fellow!"  This 
time  it  is  too  much.  ''Such  looks,  such  eyes! 
Good  for  you ! ' '  Letting  out  a  chain  of  cackles, 
the  little  floury  face  retreats  under  cover,  the 
streak  of  light  narrows,  gilds  the  frame  of  the 
door,  and  dissolves  in  the  shadow. 

Alone  .    .    .  But  am  I  still  alone? 

The  cold  window-pane  refreshes  my  forehead. 
The  street  lounges  lazily  in  its  Sunday  repose, 
and  the  room  into  which  I  turn  back  embraces  a 
fateful,  solemn  evening;  its  ripe  perfume  rises 
like  incense,  the  flower-decked  mantelpiece  resem- 
bles an  altar  beneath  a  cluster  of  tapers. 

I  no  longer  know  .    .    .  I  no  longer  know  .  .  . 


BEING  BOBN  49 


VIII 

He  is  often  late.  I  have  noticed  that  I  am 
almost  invariably  the  one  to  have  to  wait.  Work 
in  his  office  ends  at  the  same  time  as  mine,  but 
the  two  places  are  at  a  distance  from  each  other, 
and  it  always  seems  a  long  time  before  I  see 
him  coming. 

The  first  minutes  go  by  unheeded  because  the 
seven  o'clock  outpouring  streams  by  where  I  post 
myself  on  the  sidewalk.  No  signal  is  given.  At 
a  mysterious  order  and  at  a  given  moment  a  black 
wave  foams  and  contracts  at  the  exit,  and  as  in 
greeting  to  the  open  light  sends  up  a  thousand 
exclamations,  which  make  one  long  cry  of  relief. 

This  evening  it  is  still  light,  and  the  escaping 
crowd  is  not  inclined  to  hurry.  The  sluggishness 
of  the  air,  the  sonorousness,  the  droning,  the  mot- 
ley street  .  .  .  the  crowd  condenses  and  remains 
coagulated  on  one  spot.  Is  it  ever  going  to  decide 
to  pass  on? 

When  the  day's  work  is  over,  you  come  back  to 
the  brilliant  world  marvelling  at  the  holiday  sky, 
and  blinking  .  .  .  Summer  is  knocking  at  the 
window  ...  it  does  you  good  to  be  standing 
on  your  legs  expanding  your  lungs.  One  group 
attracts  you.  They  all  look  like  wags,  their  con- 
versation fascinates ;  if  you  were  to  listen  to  them, 
you  would  remain  standing  there  with  your  hands 
in  your  pockets.    But  you  are  being  awaited  at 


50  WOMAN 

home,  and  the  circle  ahnost  as  soon  as  formed 
breaks  up  with  casual  farewells  flung  over  the 
shoulder. 

When  the  women  hurry  along,  rain  or  shine,  it 
is  in  the  subconscious  urge  to  show  themselves  to 
everyone.  Those  who  swelled  the  hubbub  a  little 
while  ago  with  jostling  elbows  and  foreheads  set 
like  a  ram's — "get  a  move  on  you!" — are  the 
first  to  display  their  pronounced  busts  and  the 
slowest  to  walk  away  with  chirps  and  winged  signs 
and  nods  and  a  swaying  of  sinuous  backs. 

The  street  is  emptied.  Some  women  still  pace 
up  and  down  the  block.  They  are  waiting  for 
someone  too. 

There  he  is! 

From  the  busy  far-end  of  the  street,  across  the 
eddies  of  people,  nothing  to  tell  me  it  is  he  but 
the  shape  of  his  hat.  Again  I  feel  the  security 
that  his  appearance  always  brings. 

His  tall  figure  hemmed  in  by  a  group  detaches 
itself,  grows  bigger,  and  becomes  more  recogniz- 
able step  by  step.  I  go  to  meet  him,  slowly,  smil- 
ing despite  myself  as  he  hurries,  and  when  our 
hands  touch,  my  heart  breaks  into  bloom  .  .  . 
An  overwhelming  instant  ...  a  soft  ecstasy 
.  .  .  fusion  .  .  .  And  every  evening  it  is  as  if 
I  had  never  found  him  .    .    . 

Let  us  go  by  the  boulevards.  The  weather  is 
so  lovely,  we  have  plenty  of  time. 

Our  questions  tumble  over  one  another,  clear 
away  bothersome  trifles,  do  not  even  wait  for  an- 
swers, take  everything  for  granted — what  hap- 


BEING  BORN  51 

pened  during  the  day,  all  the  details,  everything, 
and  more  than  everything. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  what  we  listen  to  is  our 
footsteps.  We  keep  even  pace,  our  tread  makes 
the  same  sound.  A  discovery  flooding  the  heart — 
it  is  a  single  step  that  is  carrying  us  along. 

We  walk  side  by  side,  and  the  space  between 
us  does  not  divide  us.  We  are  followed  and  pre- 
ceded by  a  whole  procession  of  couples  moving 
with  a  slowTiess  strangely  rhythmic  which  leaves 
a  wake  behind. 

We  have  told  everything,  everything  we  know, 
and  everything  we  are.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
being  alike  in  order  to  be  comrades,  of  springing 
from  the  same  roots  or  having  drunk  from  the 
same  source.  The  thing  is,  for  each  to  serve  the 
truth  which  the  other  lives  with  the  same  heart 
as  his  own,  different  truth. 

No,  it  is  not  a  question  of  being  alike.  Haven't 
I  observed  a  hundred  times  that  we  are  very  dif- 
ferent? How  can  one  wish  it  otherwise?  How 
conceive  that  we  whose  age  is  not  the  same,  whose 
bodies  are  so  different,  whose  characters  are  veil- 
defined,  and  whose  careers  are  opposite  should 
respond  to  the  same  influences?  Why,  each  of  us 
responds  to  the  veriest  trifles  according  to  his  own 
temperament  .  .  .  Does  he  perceive  as  I  do  this 
street,  the  flower-beds  of  the  big  cafes,  the  crovd 
with  glowing  eyes,  the  gritty  dust?  Is  this  instant 
the  same  instant  to  him?    I  know  it  is  not   .    .    . 

A  block.   How  shall  we  get  through  ?    The  cross- 


52  WOMAN 

ing  of  the  huge  thoroughfares,  with  its  din,  its 
black  swarming  thousands,  dashing  motors, 
clanging  of  bells,  tooting  of  horns,  discharges  its 
mechanical  eruption  upon  the  city.  Let  us  run. 
He  has  slipped  his  strong  arm  under  mine;  we 
take  long  joyous  strides  and  finally  land  in  peace- 
ful territory  out  of  breath  and  radiant. 

Here  at  last  is  a  boulevard  where  one  can 
breathe,  then  an  old  countrified  street  where  si- 
lence has  nested.    We  plunge  into  its  tranquillity. 

But  ...  I  hadn't  noticed — the  red  rises  to 
my  cheeks — his  arm  is  still  under  my  arm,  con- 
fident, natural.  How  is  it  that  it  never  occurred 
to  me  that  it  should  always  be  so? 

Shall  I  dare  to  tell  him  how  sweet  it  is  to  feel 
him  so  close  to  me,  our  two  lives  joined,  our  two 
souls  welded — how  necessary  it  is  to  me? 

Feelings  depart  quickly,  and  joy  too.  I  can 
scarcely  follow  my  feelings  and  my  joy.  When 
my  heart  has  slowed  down,  yes,  I  will  speak  to 
him,  I  shall  feel  his  breath  on  my  voice,  his  warmth 
against  my  breast.  And  I  shall  obey  this  visible 
will  which  comes  running  to  me,  springing  from 
the  smiling  house-fronts,  falling  from  the  sky 
padded  with  pink. 

We  are  drawing  near  to  my  lodgings. 

Still  this  street,  where  the  gracious  wind  dances 
for  its  own  pleasure.  A  few  moments,  and  we 
stall  be  leaving  each  other. 

Leaving  each  other  .    .    .    ? 

Ah,  I  know  now  what  to  say.    I  know  what  the 


BEING  BORN  53 

will  of  a  little  while  ago  wanted,  and  my  life  and 
his  life.    I  am  going  to  find  the  words  .    .    . 

"Listen.  I  have  been  thinking.  Don't  let  us 
part  again.  Never.  It  is  I  who  am  asking  you. 
Let  us  live  together  ...  I  cannot  say  anything 
else,  that  sums  up  everything,  it  is  everything,  to 
live  together.  Is  it  love?  ...  I  don't  know  yet 
.  .  .  but  I  know  we  ought  to  live  together,  and 
you,  you  know  it  too." 

My  voice  is  thick  and  has  the  taste  of  tears; 
it  scrapes  in  my  dry  throat,  it  won't  come  out. 
He  takes  my  two  hands,  draws  me  close  to  him, 
his  gaze  caressing  my  eyes  which  strain  to  es- 
cape. With  his  body  he  supports  my  rigid,  awk- 
ward body,  which  struggles  hard  to  remain  up- 
right and  does  nothing  but  tremble. 

The  street  has  disappeared,  the  sound  of  the 
universe,  the  setting  sun  which  in  a  golden  glory    / 
celebrates  our  sacred  betrothal. 

From  under  my  closed  eyelids  I  no  longer  per- 
ceive anything  but  a  heavy  black  pendulum  with 
impetuous  strokes,  which  beats  against  my  breast 
and  henceforth  regulates  our  joint  existences  .  .  .. 


IX 


My  family  was  exultant. 

Behold  me  returned  to  "proper"  life,  from 
which  I  had  so  long  been  absent,  by  the  massive 
trap-door  of  marriage  ...  I  took  on  a  value 


54  WOMAN 

in  their  reassured  eyes,  I  became  a  somebody,  and 
in  the  ardor  of  the  first  moment  they  had  the  im- 
pression that  they  completely  forgave  me. 

They  were  exultant.  They  sent  a  charming 
gown  to  my  lodgings  and  apprised  me  that  a  big 
dinner  was  being  arranged  to  give  my  future  hus- 
band the  chance  to  become  acquainted.  In  spite 
of  my  repugnance  I  was  caught  in  the  cog-wheels. 
The  joy  of  seeing  my  mother  again  made  me  pass 
over  everything  indulgently. 

It  was  she  who  ruined  the  whole  business. 
Could  I  not  see  her  disdainful  attitude  towards 
a  man's  poverty,  her  terrorized  submission  to  the 
world's  judgment?  ''You  know,  you  are  supposed 
to  be  coming  back  from  England,  we  have  even 
given  details,  don't  contradict  us  .  .  ."  And 
the  quasi-respect  with  which  she  encompassed  me 
because  of  the  authority  with  which  marriage 
crowns  a  daughter ! 

There  certainly  was  enough  to  frighten  one. 
Their  rejoicing  smelled  of  revenge.  What  stifling 
quality,  I  wonder,  can  marriage  have?  What  op- 
pression, what  defeats,  what  chains  await  me? 
Am  I  going  to  prison? 

But  when  I  turn  towards  him  and  bathe  my 
sight  in  the  serene  waters  of  his  eyes,  I  recover 
my  assurance  and  soar  with  him  again.  For  them, 
it  is  clear,  marriage  is  an  irrevocable  finality,  a 
tight  ring,  the  oppression  of  that  wild,  free  in- 
stinct which  you  breathe  out  with  your  breath. 
To  us  marriage  is  only  a  word. 

Throughout  the  dinner  time  stood  still,  each 


BEING  BORN  55 

second  stagnated  and  told  a  lie.  And  something 
indefinably  foul  and  poisonous  rose  from  their  at- 
titude. Sometimes  I  felt  as  if  I  had  never  quitted 
this  hypocritical  spot  and  this  gilded  furniture. 
I  held  aloof  from  him  in  apparent  indifference, 
but  really  to  save  our  innocent  love  from  their 
profane  eyes. 

They  left  us  alone  for  a  moment,  and  that  mo- 
ment is  the  one  thing  in  the  whole  evening  of 
which  I  retain  a  clear  picture  although  scarcely  a 
week  has  passed  since  then.  In  saying  we  were 
alone  I  am  not  quite  accurate.  A  law  forbade 
that  young  people  should  be  left  alone  together 
for  a  single  instant.  My  sister  and  her  big  boy 
of  a  fiance  were  near  us ;  we  were  not  quite  sure 
which  couple  had  been  put  in  custody  of  the  other. 

With  arms  fondly  entwined  about  each  other's 
waists  they  began  to  kiss  and  hug.  She  held  up 
her  lips  and  uncoiled  the  serpent  of  her  body  tan- 
talizingly.  When  they  were  a  little  tired  and  their 
mouths  blown,  I  heard  a  panting  sentence  which 
ended  with:  ''You  will  love  me  always?"  "Of 
course,  always,"  he  murmured  in  her  ear. 

I  blushed.  Not  from  offended  modesty,  but  he 
and  I — we  had  never  dreamed  of  such  vows.  They 
seemed  silly  to  me.  How  can  one  swear  to  love 
forever  and  say  to  a  man:  ''Unto  all  eternity  I 
shall  be  the  most  beautiful,  the  only  one  in  your 
heart"?  Always,  forever,  words  which  life  at 
every  turn  refutes,  how  is  it  that  a  live  heart 
would  not  give  them  the  lie? 

I  must  have  looked  a  little  haggard.    My  sister 


56  WOMAN 

turning  round  saw  that  we  sat  apart  with  a 
gloomy,  distant  manner.  The  same  thought  was 
in  his  mind. 

*' Aren't  they  cold  for  lovers?"  .    .    .  By  way 
of  reply  to  her  own  question,  she  kissed  her  fiance. 


After  fingering  the  deposit  the  old  pot-bellied 
concierge  livened  up.  ''Money  from  lovers  isn't 
mere  money,  it  means  good  luck." 

When  he  came  back  unexpectedly  and  with  a 
paternal  burr  in  his  voice  offered  us  "  a  little  can- 
dle-end to  take  the  measurements  with;  so  often 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  forget,"  it  was  chiefly 
to  surprise  us  in  an  embrace,  or  some  laughing 
dispute  interlarded  with  kisses. 

The  apartment  of  three  adjoining  rooms  like 
three  cells  in  a  honeycomb  is  very  nice.  It  must 
be  bright  in  summer,  the  stairs  are  kept  clean, 
the  courtyard  is  cool  and  fresh  with  its  green 
lane  of  flower-pots.  Our  windows  look  right  out 
on  the  top  of  the  tree.  A  mighty  rare  thing,  a 
tree  in  Paris.  Spring  mornings  we  shall  be  awak- 
ened by  a  fusillade  of  bird  songs. 

So  this  is  where  we  shall  live.  These  rooms, 
in  which  the  atmosphere  seems  low  and  cramped 
and  the  floor  is  all  splintered,  are  to  serve  us  as 
domain  and  empire;  these  walls  are  to  be  our 
horizon. 


BEING  BORN  57 

When  I  was  a  child  and  lay  tucked  in  bed, 
I  used  to  dream  of  ''being  grown  up."  .  .  . 
Then  when  I  was  fifteen  I'd  say  to  myself  "later 
on"  so  as  to  hear  another  troubling,  forbidden 
word  echo  in  my  ears.  And  now  my  confused 
dreams  are  come  to  attend  me  here  ...  So  here 
is  the  end  of  the  story ;  it  is  all  here,  the  mirage. 

Only  yesterday  the  sole  reason  for  the  existence 
of  this  place  was  a  jaundiced,  weather-beaten  sign 
on  the  street.  .  .  .  And  now  our  double  life 
has  found  its  temple,  chosen  its  setting,  and  fixed 
upon  its  rallying  point. 

So  this  is  the  place  we  shall  call  "home.** 
When  the  rain  beats  down  out  of  doors  and  a 
wrecking  wind  blows,  this  will  be  our  unchanging 
harbor.  Whenever  we  make  a  new  friend  and  we 
have  told  him  everything  and  there  are  still  more 
things  to  tell,  we  shall  welcome  him  across  this 
threshold  and  within  these  walls  and  let  him  see 
our  ultimate  selves.  And  when  the  golden  May 
daylight  rouses  you  from  bed  and  sends  you  run- 
ning to  the  window  to  feel  its  radiant  stroke  on 
your  cheek  and  vague  longings  take  possession  of 
you,  it  will  be  the  fastenings  of  this  window  which 
will  turn  to  let  in  the  breath  of  the  dawn. 

The  little  dining-room  seems  somewhat  less  des- 
olate than  the  other  wan  rooms.  The  ceiling  still 
bears  the  mark  of  the  hanging-lamp  as  a  sign  of 
where  the  kindly  light  came  from;  a  border  of 
red  arabesques  runs  round  the  top  of  the  walls, 
and  the  fireplace  of  russet  imitation  marble  with 


58  WOMAN 

its  pitted  traces  from  invisible  fingers  of  flame 
makes  you  feel  as  though  the  grate  were  still 
warm. 

The  kitchen  is  so  tiny  and  so  like  a  toy  that 
there's  not  a  thing  in  it,  not  even  an  old  knife 
left  behind  through  oversight.  In  spite  of  the 
floor  with  tiles  missing  like  teeth  from  a  mouth, 
the  sink  with  dried-up  pores,  the  stove  downy  with 
rust,  it  is  the  one  room  that  doesn't  seem  to  be 
crying  for  help.  It  needs  only  a  glimmer  in  the 
stove  and  savory  smells  to  give  it  life. 

This  is  the  moment  to  look  life  in  the  face — ^the 
real  life,  not  the  one  people  talk  about.  Until  now 
our  love  has  rested  merely  upon  a  foundation  of 
clay.  It  has  been  facile,  scarcely  tangible.  I  per- 
ceive it  is  a  love  to  be. 

Now  our  love  must  be  confronted  with  its  king- 
dom, must  have  its  boundaries  and  landmarks 
fixed,  must  be  asked  to  shine  in  truth  and  be 
forced  to  the  test.  Let  our  love  speak  and  inspire 
us.  Later,  when  we  shall  have  furniture  around 
us,  like  words  already  spoken,  we  shall  be  less 
at  ease. 

"If  you  like,  this  shall  be  your  room.  It  suits 
you.  The  neutral  paper  makes  it  restful  for  think- 
ing, and  the  recess  is  all  ready  for  a  couch.  Look, 
it's  waiting  for  you.  I  will  take  the  other  room 
because  of  the  clothes-closet,  and  I'll  enjoy  lean- 
ing out  across  the  white  window-sill  for  the  fresh 
air. 

"We  shall  visit  each  other.    We  shall  be  free 


BEING  BORN  59 

and  easy.  Yon  will  come  and  go  and  receive  your 
friends,  do  as  yon  please,  withont  ever  having  to 
acconnt  to  me. 

"But  we  are  going  to  suffer,  perhaps,  in  order 
to  remain  content  and  preserve  the  multitude  of 
joys  that  one  experiences  when  alone? 

"This  dividing  wall  is  nothing  more,  after  all, 
than  a  thin  membrane  through  which  the  pres- 
ence in  the  next  room  will  ooze.  When  you  are 
surrounded  by  your  friends  in  the  lively  hum  and 
buzz  of  comradely  conversation,  they  will  suddenly 
notice  the  shadow  of  an  intruder  moving  as  a 
Avoman  moves.  In  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they 
will  have  us  much  married,  you  and  me — the  mar- 
riage of  a  friend  is  a  little  like  a  theft — and  with- 
out your  suspecting  it,  at  that  very  moment,  in 
the  very  midst  of  their  talk,  they  will  leave  you. 

"Do  you  really  believe  we  shall  be  happy?  I, 
for  my  part,  would  not  like  your  friends  to  desert 
you.  It  seems  unfair  that  you  should  be  loved 
the  less  because  of  love.  Are  you  quite  sure  that 
one  has  the  right  to  impose  one's  unalloyed  hope 
upon  a  person  for  a  lifetime?  Are  you  sure 
that  in  the  name  of  love  the  person  one  has  chosen 
can  remain  the  best  of  all  persons?  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  are  you  sure  you  will  not  bear  me  a  grudge  ? 

"And  can  the  most  beautiful  union  remain 
beautiful?  For  we  are  about  to  sign  a  pact. 
There's  no  denying  it.  What's  to  be  done  about 
this  transport  that  we  are,  this  constant  expecta- 
tion, this  clinging  intoxication? 

''You  know  we  shall  have  only  each  other  inti- 


60  WOMAN 

mately.  Even  inanimate  things  will  exert  a  ten- 
dency to  influence  ns.  When  the  little  lodging  will 
take  on  our  mould  and  there  will  be  chairs  to 
hold  out  our  habits  to  us  and  a  brown  pulsating 
clock,  creature  of  even  utterance  and  over-sensi- 
tive soul,  the  fond  familiar  place  will  weigh  and 
impose  itself  upon  us. 

^'So  the  host  of  wishes,  the  magnificent  secrets, 
the  kernel  of  sadness,  the  nomadic  hopes  must 
all  be  made  to  enter  by  this  door  into  our  asso- 
ciated days?  Tell  me,  how  is  one  to  act?  Must 
happiness,  true  happiness  without  law  or  bridle, 
also  be  shut  up  here,  here  and  nowhere  else?  And 
must  happiness  be  the  same  for  the  two  of  us  who 
are  different? 

''There's  a  children's  fairy  tale  that  once  there 
was  a  princess  whose  heavily  embroidered  robe 
was  by  a  magic  command  made  to  pass  through 
a  ring. 

"Lovers  betrothed  think  they  understand  love. 
But  they  have  not  lived  together — and  every  day. 
They  don't  know  what  that  means.  Those  who 
love  as  in  books  do  not  contemplate  a  long  journey 
when  they  set  out  together,  and  if  the  short-lived 
blaze  vanishes  at  the  first  turning  in  the  road,  it 
is  not  a  great  misfortune.  Another  spark  will 
do  for  another  kindling.  And  there  are  those  who 
renounce,  abdicate  their  own  selves,  bend  the  knee, 
and  trust  to  love.  .  .  .  But  how  are  those  to 
act  who  are  not  cut  in  heroic  marble,  who  do  not 
want  to  lie  or  renounce,  who  don't  pity  the  other 
one,  who  are  not  afraid  of  themselves,  who  love 


BEING  BORN  61 

as  people  love  in  actual  life,  who  are  like  us  ?  Per- 
haps you  know  better  than  I  do.  You  are  a  man 
and  older  than  I  am,  but  I — I  ask  myself  .    .    . 

"I  was  ready,  as  women  are,  for  great  impossi- 
ble things.  I  never  thought  about  them  very  clear- 
ly, but  I  felt  my  emotions  pierce  me  like  dagger 
thrusts.  They  inspired  me  with  an  all-powerful 
spirit,  and  if  I  had  had  to  batter  down  mountains, 
or  dash  through  a  river  of  fire,  or  die  in  your 
stead,  I  should  have  closed  my  eyes  and  done  it 
at  one  go. 

''And  behold  the  test.  The  test  is  here.  Why 
is  it  that  the  thing  one  awaits  and  expects  never 
is  the  actual  test?  The  acual  test  has  only  a 
sorry  way  about  it,  a  commonplace  aspect,  a  very 
reduced  compass ;  it  holds  nothing  but  monotonous 
moments  jogging  along  one  after  the  other;  it 
stops  just  at  the  foreshortened  shadow  at  your 
feet,  and  my  arms  which  I  was  about  to  open  are, 
you  see,  arms  of  lead. 

'^  Before  I  entered  these  rooms  love  looked  like 
you  and  the  future  shone  like  a  festival  just  be- 
ginning. What  is  left  of  all  that?  I  no  longer 
hear  the  chimes  of  golden  promises  ringing  in 
my  ears.  I  no  longer  feel  the  hosannas  of  my 
heart,  and  it's  as  though  I  scarcely  saw  you  in 
the  gloomy  corner  where  you  are  standing." 

I  see  the  little  dwelling  where  the  hesitant  eve- 
ning has  not  yet  taken  its  place.  The  silence  is 
laid  bare,  life  is  showing  us  her  skeleton;  through 
the  mottled  panes  one  sees  that  the  hour  has  red 
eyes  and  the  walls  confronting  us  in  their  inflex- 


62  WOMAN 

ible  truthfulness  have  become  our  four  upright 
witnesses. 

I  feel  like  running  away. 


XI 


"When  everybody  was  assigned  a  seat  in  the  car- 
riages, whips  cracked  and  the  procession  got  un- 
der way. 

The  carriage  at  the  head  in  a  splash  of  sun- 
shine drew  the  whole  line  after  it,  shattering  the 
massive  silence  of  the  street.  The  occupants  were 
still  settling  themselves,  the  ladies  with  a  great 
rustling  of  silk  and  a  vast  deal  of  twisting  and 
turning  before  they  got  themselves  comfortably 
installed,  while  the  men  were  obliged  to  sit  for- 
ward on  the  edge  of  the  seats  and  be  very  careful 
of  the  disposition  of  their  legs. 

''Lovely  weather,"  said  one  of  the  two  ladies, 
"they're  lucky."  No  one  answered.  They  held 
themselves  in  abeyance  for  the  usual  conviviality 
to  come  later,  and  passed  the  time  looking 
through  the  lowered  tsdndows  at  the  unknown 
quarter  through  which  the  procession  was  wind- 
ing, where  the  houses  sank  upon  each  other  and 
the  people  in  workaday  clothes  stood  still  to  stare 
with  eyes  of  envy. 

The  second  carriage  had  set  off  at  a  rapid  pace ; 
the  coachman  was  holding  in  his  frisky  pair. 

"Say  what  you  like,  she's  a  beautiful  bride," 


BEING  BORN  63 

Like  most  very  old  ladies,  this  one  suggested 
widowhood.  Even  in  talking  she  exhaled  the  at- 
tenuated sadness  that  invests  old  people  with  a 
protective  halo. 

"Oh,  she's  just  like  the  rest.  "What's  in  her 
favor  is  that  she 's  fair.  A  brunette  bride  always 
makes  you  think  of  a  fly  in  milk.  At  least,  that's 
my  opinion  .    .    . " 

That  was  a  good  start.  One  remark  led  to  an- 
other; the  conversation  livened  up.  The  ladies 
in  their  silk  gowns  felt  conscious  of  sharing  in 
pomp  and  an  important  ceremony. 

'*I  was  told  she  ran  away  from  home  last  year, 
vrith  ..." 

The  carriage  jolted  and  zigzagged,  but  the 
group  sat  undisturbed.  Each  felt  drawn  to  the 
other  three  by  a  decidedly  increasing  sympathy. 

What  spirit  haunted  these  carriages  ?  All  these 
people  were  held  by  an  obsession.  They  had  seen 
the  bride  in  her  starry  whiteness  and  persistently 
retained  an  image  with  a  halo  round  it.  The  bride 
was  the  sole  topic. 

''I  don't  approve  of  a  double  standard,"  said 
another  lady.  "They  did  a  tremendous  amount 
for  her  sister's  wedding;  you  know  they  did,  while 
they're  not  doing  a  thing  for  this  poor  child." 
A  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "I  don't  think  it's 
fair." 

Everything  she  said  came  out  with  a  ripple  in 
it  from  the  unevenness  of  the  paving.  lier  neigh- 
bor was  plunged  in  dreams,  unaware.  A  day  tri- 
umphal arose  out  of  the  distant  past  when  she 


64  WOMAN 

too  walked  in  white.  "Twenty-seven  years  like 
one  month!    How  time  does  fly!" 

They  warmed  up  to  their  subject. 

*'She  is  making  a  very  bad  match:  he  hasn't 
a  cent  .    .    .  " 

**  You  forget  she's  well  over  twenty- two.  A  girl 
has  got  to  take  a  husband  when  she  finds  one. 
Husbands  don't  grow  in  the  front-yard." 

The  perspiration  came  out  in  beads  on  their 
fleshy  foreheads.  A  stop.  What  had  happened? 
A  block?  An  accident?  Plumed  hats  were  stuck 
out  of  carriage  doors.  ''Get  in  again,  madam,  you 
can't  see  anything.  You'll  break  your  aigrette. 
If  I  tell  you  ..." 

The  procession  shortened  like  a  snake  drawing 
in  its  coils. 

*'Ha,  ha!  I  know  someone  who  will  not  find  it 
dull  to-night!" 

Their  laughter  took  on  a  sharper  edge ;  smiles 
lurked  in  the  corners  of  their  mouths  just  deep 
enough  to  show  that  they  understood,  that  they 
had  their  own  recollections  and  at  the  same  time 
were  in  well-bred  company  .  .  .  This  lady  with 
the  air  of  knowing  a  thing  or  two  .  .  .  What? 
.  .  .  Without  waiting  to  be  importuned,  she  drew 
herself  up  heroically  and  whispered  something 
over  the  frilled  hat  of  the  little  girl  beside  her. 
They  threw  themselves  back  beaming,  stuffed  full. 
**  Impossible!" 

Boots  creaked,  gowns  rustled.  The  carriages 
began  to  clatter  through  the  streets  again. 

The    laughter    of    young    people.      Not    very 


BEING  BORN  65 

loud.  Hiding  something  sweet  and  indefinably 
solemn.  She  was  only  fourteen.  She  had  nothing 
but  her  thin  little  feelings,  which,  however,  kept 
her  straight  and  haughty  as  an  Infanta.  By  lean- 
ing over  slightly  she  succeeded  in  seeing  the  bride. 
The  bride  .  .  .  the  white  word  flitted  about  her 
like  a  light  ball.  .  .  .  But  straightway  she  saw 
the  bride  her  eyes  fell.  The  same  emotion  had 
surprised  her  on  Sunday  at  mass  when  she  saw 
the  host  rise  in  a  beam  of  light,  and  also  when 
she  listened  to  the  hand-organ  grind  out  arias. 
Ecstasy  leapt  within  her  and  hope  sang:  '^Me 
too  some  day  .    .    ." 

The  last  carriage  kept  behind ;  a  low  coupe  with 
drawn  shades.  A  stiffly  wired  bouquet  shed  its 
fragrance  within.  As  it  sped  rapidly  by,  heads 
turned  around  for  a  long  look  and  for  the  sake 
of  the  virginal  memory  it  left  behind. 

I  was  in  that  last  speeding  carriage.  I  had 
obeyed  my  mother's  entreaties,  I  had  agreed  to 
figure  in  this  masquerade. 

So  as  not  to  rumple  my  fairy  dress  I  forced 
myself  not  to  make  a  movement  but  to  remain 
impassive  and  avoid  the  least  little  stir.  It  was 
my  role  to  receive  the  host  of  looks  converging 
upon  me  as  if  levelled  at  a  target,  hard  and  fast, 
crowding,  curious.  I  confess  that  beneath  my 
snowy  veil  and  sanctified  air  I  lent  myself  to 
the  situation  with  a  bit  of  vanity. 


66  WOMAN 

It  takes  me  a  long  time  to  undress.  My  bridal 
costume  is  fastened  by  a  thousand  hidden  snaps 
and  pins.    I  have  trouble  in  getting  out  of  it. 

My  room  frightens  me.  ''Take  possession  of 
us,"  say  the  chairs  and  tables.  ''Act,  command, 
try  your  hand,  you  are  in  your  own  home,  it  is 
your  life  which  is  arising,  we  are  watching  you. 
What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

The  more  the  furniture  goads,  the  heavier  the 
languor  that  settles  upon  me,  the  less  I  know,  the 
less  I  advance.  In  vain  I  summon  to  my  aid  ideas 
from  without;  none  takes  hold.  I  repeat,  for 
example,  that  this  is  the  test  of  both  of  us,  the 
beginning  of  our  union.  I  fancy  myself  clutching 
at  resolutions,  but  they  fall  back  at  my  approach 
and  sink  routed  into  the  folds  of  the  curtains. 
Is  it  really  necessary  to  struggle?  Wouldn't  it 
be  better  to  put  my  head  in  my  hands  and  drop 
into  the  softness  and  restfulness  of  my  new  arm- 
chair? 

When  we  came  here  a  little  while  ago,  it  was  he 
who  was  the  first  to  experience  this  sort  of  trou- 
ble. We  had  been  looking  over  our  home  and 
when  the  tour  was  ended  he  took  me  in  his  arms, 
and  I  felt  the  warm  flesh  of  his  kiss  under  my 
chin.  A  blow  seemed  to  strike  my  bowels.  I 
tightened  up  into  a  ball,  my  muscles  tense,  thrown 
on  the  defensive.  An  evil  fear  made  me  shiver. 
He  raised  his  head.  I  had  never  seen  him  look 
so  tragic.  His  features  were  hardened,  his  eyes 
swimming  ...  I  fell  away  from  him  like  a 
flower  snapped  from  its  stem. 


BEING  BORN  67 

A  sudden  instinct  sent  me  to  the  looking-glass, 
as  if  it  held  an  answer  to  everything.  Maybe 
looking-glasses  do  offer  the  eternal  answer  to  the 
riddle  of  the  universe. 

I  had  said  to  myself:  ''You  will  be  close  to  him, 
you  two  will  be  alone  together,  perhaps  it  will  be 
beyond  human  power  to  try  to  be  happy. ' '  I  used 
to  fancy  life  as  a  struggle,  a  piece  of  work  to  be 
done,  a  masterpiece,  and  imagined  what  my  acts 
would  be — all  voluntary  and  making  for  perfec- 
tion. I  forgot  that  they  would  have  to  be  per- 
formed by  these  arms  with  their  warm  flesh. 

I  had  thought:  ''He  knows  me  through  and 
through,  I  have  made  him  read  everything. ' '  But 
no,  he  knows  nothing.  He  does  not  know  the 
lovely  shape  of  my  breasts,  the  lyre  of  my  hips, 
the  curves  of  my  legs,  nor  this  unknown  body  the 
expression  of  which  is  so  changing  that  it  is  like 
some  murmured  tale  which  the  light  embraces 
and  tells  aloud. 

It  remains  for  me  to  bestow  a  final  confidence 
upon  him ;  that  of  the  body  unveiling  itself,  daring 
to  confess  itself.  Is  this  not  the  purest  confi- 
dence? But  let  it  not  come  before  its  own  hour, 
for  it  must  lead  to  a  moment  of  truth  so  naked 
and  so  unexpected  that  it  frightens  me  a  little. 

It  is  strange :  this  evening  I  live  with  the  whole 
of  my  body  for  the  first  time.  I  exist  wherever 
it  is.  Even  as  I  stand  here  fixed  and  tense  in  front 
of  the  glass,  I  follow  a  line  which  may  arch,  swell 
and  melt  away  and  which  already  bears  the  shape 
of  love. 


68  WOMAN 

I  can  imagine  everything  .  .  .  for  there's  no 
need  of  having  loved  in  order  to  be  a  lover.  All 
I  should  have  to  do,  if  I  dared,  would  be  to  twine 
my  arms  around  his  neck,  press  him  hard,  and 
harder  still,  and  the  moment  would  come  when  I 
should  forget  the  modesty  of  my  single  life. 

And  without  knowing  any  more  one  would  be 
lost,  distraught,  acquiescent,  lulled  to  sleep  even 
to  the  soul,  more  beautiful  than  one  is  beautiful. 

I  can  go  still  further,  for  the  flesh  that  clasps 
cannot  be  deceived.  When  the  man  and  the 
woman  are  united,  it  is  the  woman  subdued,  armed 
with  her  weakness,  who  becomes  the  stronger.  I 
am  sure  of  it  already.  In  the  depths  of  my  igno- 
rant flesh,  I  already  feel  domination  germinating. 
It  is  not  I;  it  is  a  law  older  than  I  that  is  seeking 
to  fulfill  itself. 

And  suddenly  I  am  frightened.  .    .    . 

But  I  am  mad  .  .  .  Man,  woman,  nothing  but 
two  words,  which  are  not  of  the  stuff  of  life.  Is 
there  a  single  emotion  in  which  I  recognize  my- 
self? Truth?  But  it  is  the  truth  of  others.  The 
truth  that  reaches  you  is  always  different.  Isn't 
it  senseless  to  dread  what  depends  upon  yourself? 
Are  we  strangers  that  I  should  hesitate  like  this 
to  run  to  him?  Isn't  he  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door,  he  of  whom  my  body  is  thinking f  Isn't  it 
enough  for  us  to  look  upon  each  other?  Is  there 
a  single  question  he  cannot  understand?  One 
seeks  happiness.    It  is  all  so  simple   .    .    . 

Ah,  let  us  go  astray  every  day,  let  us  deceive 
ourselves,  let  us  suffer  alongside  our  own  hearts, 


BEING  BORN  69 

let  us  try  to  clasp  the  invisible!  But  this  eve- 
ning there  is  nothing  but  a  thin  partition  between 
my  secret  and  myself.  I  feel  my  heart  throbbing 
as  if  it  were  laid  bare.  I  am  beautiful,  I  am 
alive.  .  .  . 
Am  I  not  right?  .    .    . 


BOOK  II 

BEING 


71 


IT  is  her  eyes  in  particular.  Ever  since  her 
eyes  have  made  a  part  of  my  life,  I  have  known 
what  nostalgia  for  Brittany  means,  and  the  infi- 
nite mournfulness  with  which  it  permeates  a 
human  being. 

She  is  like  the  rest  of  her  race,  short-legged, 
round,  thick-set,  and  her  gestures  conceal  rather 
than  reveal  her  hands.  She  talks  in  a  sing-song 
and  ends  with  a  sigh.  Her  name  is  Marie,  as 
though  she  were  a  little  nurse-maid  of  eighteen 
at  thirty  francs  a  month.  Oh,  it's  not  the  room 
she  takes  up.  But  for  her  blue-thistle  gaze  and 
the  plaint  of  her  body,  you'd  scarcely  know  she 
was  there. 

Seven  o'clock.  I  am  already  on  the  street  with 
bent  head,  insensible  to  the  allurements  of  the 
shops,  driven  blindly  on  with  cheeks  inflamed  by 
the  wind. 

The  great  porte-cochere,  the  steps  three  at  a 
time,  two  pulls  at  the  bell,  long,  breathless  min- 
utes; finally  the  door  opens,  cautiously.  Marie 
behind  the  door  squeezes  herself  up  on  tip-toe 
against  the  wall  to  let  me  pass. 

It  is  almost  a  sacrilege  to  speak  in  a  raised  voice 
as  I  do  and  bring  in  so  much  of  the  outside  air. 
"I3  cUnner  ready,  Marie,  is  everything  ready?" 

73 


74  WOMAN 

Since  Marie  never  answers,  I  go  straight  into  the 
kitchen.  Goodness,  nothing  done.  Well,  I'll  have 
to  get  at  the  supper  myself.  There's  still  a  good 
half-hour  left,  I  believe. 

As  I  hastily  remove  my  wraps,  I  feel  the  dull 
pang  that  assails  you  at  the  sight  of  disorder. 

There,  I  have  the  water  boiling  now  and  the 
cooking  is  well  under  way.  I  didn't  know  I  was 
so  quick  and  capable.  After  all,  Marie's  only  a 
child. 

Marie  bustles  about.  I  see  her  two  reddish, 
porous,  spatulate  hands  pounce  on  things,  I  hear 
the  clash  of  utensils.  Her  person  becomes  many 
persons,  she  jostles  me,  moves  hither  and  thither 
like  a  distracted  tortoise,  bends  almost  double  to 
pick  up  a  strainer.  .  .  .  To  be  sure  the  kitchen 
is  tiny. 

I  speak  to  her  as  one  speaks  to  a  child.  **Do 
you  understand  me,  Marie?  Don't  be  afraid,  I 
am  not  unkind."  The  lifeless  fixity  of  her  face 
suddenly  comes  undone,  her  features  contract. 
Marie  was  dulled  by  the  monotonous  gloom  of 
an  asylum  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the  city.  She 
slightly  raises  the  heavenly  blue  of  her  eyes  with- 
out fastening  them  on  anything.  I  see  her  tena- 
cious hatred  wake  up  and  stir.  A  single  flash. 
Then  her  red-rimmed  eyes  flutter  and  fall;  she 
is  in  order  again,  in  the  vague  sort  of  order  char- 
acteristic of  things  inaccessible  and  forlorn. 

I  realize  she  cannot  understand  me.  To  her  I 
mean  constraint,  uprooting,  exile,  that  unusual- 
ness  which  throws  simple  people  out  of  their  or- 


BEING  75 

bits.  And  though  she  has  never  been  accustomed 
to  anything  else  than  maltreatment,  neglect,  and 
beatings,  I  understand  ...  I  try  to  be  gentler, 
to  smile  when  I  turn  toward  her,  for  in  the  end 
visible  kindness  should  make  itself  seen  .  .  . 
And  it  would  be  so  good  to  reclaim  this  nature, 
to  explain  everything  to  her,  beginning  at  the  be- 
ginning. 

I  recall  the  scene  of  yesterday  evening.  We 
were  at  table.  She  brought  in  the  smoking  soup- 
tureen  at  arm's  length.  Her  heavy  tread  rolled 
like  a  cannon-ball  upon  our  delight  in  being  to- 
gether, then  she  retreated  to  the  kitchen  like  a 
dog  slinking  to  its  kennel.  A  crash  of  china.  I 
jumped  up. 

' '  Something  broken  ? '  * 

"No,  madam." 

''But,  Marie.    .    ." 

"No,  madam,  no,  madam  ..." 

I  was  close  beside  her  and  this  time  looked  deep 
into  her  eyes.  I  saw  the  freckles  on  her  white 
skin,  and  there  emanated  from  her  the  amazing 
innocence  of  an  accused  child.  Her  voice  came 
from  her  palpitating  throat  with  a  quiver  in  it. 

"No,  no,  no." 

Poor  Marie.  I  felt  remorseful.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Marie,  we  were  mistaken." 

Nevertheless  I  didn't  budge,  as  if  I  were  at 
length  going  to  learn  why  one  human  being  can 
be  so  terrorized  by  another  .  .  .  She  too  stood 
motionless.  I  did  not  notice  that  her  attitude  was 
rather  peculiar.    I  put  my  hand  on  her  shoulders. 


76  WOMAN 

*'My  little  Marie  .  .  ."  At  this  she  staggered 
and  trod  heavily  on  breaking  china.  Her  face 
was  imploring  .    .    . 

Hidden  under  her  bell-shaped  Breton  petticoat 
which  touched  the  floor  lay  my  pretty  gray  china 
cup  shivered  to  bits. 

She  behaved  the  way  girls  brought  up  by  Sis- 
ters always  do.  She  crouched  against  the  wall, 
her  forehead  hidden  in  the  crook  of  her  arm.  Her 
bosom  as  pinched  as  a  wasp's  went  up  and  down 
precipitately,  and  the  tears  began  to  flow. 

I  stopped  gathering  up  the  pieces  to  console  her 
gently. 

''It's  not  your  fault,  Marie  .  .  .  come,  don't 
cry,  don't  cry." 

Marie  close  by  is  bending  over  the  sink  rubbing 
it  with  a  brush  round  and  round  always  on  the 
same  spot.  The  water  slaps  on  the  tile  floor  and 
squirts  over  my  dress.  Her  movements  have 
something  eternal  about  them  and  the  appearance 
of  never-ending  complaint. 

There  is  nothing  to  say.  Whatever  I  do,  she 
remains  dumb,  aud  the  more  I  try  to  reach  her, 
the  more  she  avoids  me. 

But  what  does  Marie  matter?  I  force  myself 
to  get  back  to  my  own  affairs.  And  quickly.  He 
will  come  in,  there  will  be  his  gaiety,  the  joy  flash- 
ing in  our  voices,  the  day's  doings  to  tell  of,  and 
our  dear  union  only  a  fortnight  old  .    .    . 

Marie  is  there ;  nothing  can  efface  her.    My  irri- 


BEING  77 

tation  against  her  boils  up,  then  turns  against 
myself.  It  is  not  pity  I  feel  but  rather  an  intol- 
erable impotence.  I  hurl  myself  with  all  my  force 
against  the  eclipsed  expression  of  the  Breton  girl, 
and  each  time  it  hurts. 

Marie   ,    .    . 

And  I  used  to  think  that  to  love  was  to  feel 
yourselves  alone.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  to  feel 
yourself  to  be  many. 

No,  no,  love  is  not  the  emotion  of  two  people. 
No,  as  soon  as  one  feels  love  one  wants  to  love 
everyone,  wm  over  everyone,  shine  on  everyone, 
even  on  this  ignorant  head.  What  sin  have  I  com- 
mitted that  a  single  welcome  should  be  denied 
me?  She  does  not  smile;  that's  my  fault.  What 
is  lacking  in  my  love'  that  I  should  face  the  vexa- 
tion of  a  culpable  failure  ?  My  pity  for  Marie  and 
my  love  for  him  are  one,  because  I  have  only  one 
heart.  And  since  my  heart  is  repulsed,  is  it  im- 
pure? 

Marie  has  resumed  her  feeble,  beaten-down  ex- 
istence. She  has  set  aside  the  brush,  her  blue  eyes 
look  beyond  the  walls,  she  wipes  her  wet  hands 
on  her  apron — her  hostile  hands,  which  are  pecu- 
liarly hers. 

What  can  one  do?  But  there  must  be  some- 
thing she  believes  in,  there  must  be  something  one 
can  do  to  move  her,  there  must  be  some  word  to 
say  to  uncover  the  tomb  of  her  heart. 

I  stopped.    For  a  moment  I  left  my  work.   .    .    . 

Where  find  the  ultimate  words  of  love,  the  final 
words — simple  and  difficult — when  one  does  not 


78  WOMAN 

even  know  the  word  to  make  one  poor  inferior 
Marie  blossom  out? 


n 


When  I  am  old  I  shall  warm  myself  at  the  rich 
shining  vision  of  the  first  days  of  my  love.  I  shall 
hold  out  the  dry  sticks  of  my  arms.  I  shall  beg 
for  a  little  fire,  a  little  sap.  I  shall  return  to 
the  present  with  feebly  beating  heart  and  faltering 
step. 

Poor  withered  old  woman,  you  do  not  remem- 
ber; and  others  will  bestowi  upon  you  the  charity 
of  showing  you  a  picture  of  lovers.  You  see  us 
as  we,  wife  and  husband,  used  to  embrace,  how  I 
leapt  to  his  side,  how  his  mouth  clung  to  the  fruits 
of  my  cheeks,  and  how  we  laughed  a  matchless 
laughter.  Well,  that  is  enough  for  you,  return  to 
your  winter,  to  the  virgin  plain  of  your  old  age, 
to  your  years  perched  precipitously  over  death. 

Am  I  the  first  by  any  chance  to  hide  the  truth 
from  you? 

The  truth  of  to-day  has  no  brilliance  or  halo. 
My  joy  ill  being  a  young  bride  is  not  at  all  what 
I  used  to  fancy  it  would  be. 

The  dominant  motive  of  my  life  at  present,  its 
great  preoccupation,  is  by  no  means  to  invent  new 
words  of  love.  It  is  to  give  battle  to  the  existence 
that  one  buys — buys  with  pennies  and  infinite 
pains. 


BEING  79 

We  are  poor.  As  we  each  earn  our  own  living, 
we  have  decided  that  I  shall  manage  the  budget 
for  both.  It  is  my  job  to  concoct  the  meals ;  and 
they  must  be  wholesome,  pleasing  to  the  eye,  intel- 
ligently planned,  tasty.  The  house  must  be  bright, 
beautiful,  convenient,  cozy,  stamped  with  an  air 
of  prosperity.  Time  has  to  be  economized,  a  cease- 
less tyranny  must  be  exercised  over  things,  noth- 
ing may  be  neglected,  order  must  be  adhered  to 
slavishly,  hygienic  principles  followed  vigilantly. 
2ind  lastly,  all  these  things,  which  are  everything, 
must  be  accomplished  successfully,  and  so  success- 
fully that  once  caught  and  conquered  they  will 
come  easily. 

If  only  I  had  the  money  with  which  to  fare 
forth  to  battle,  it  might  be  easy,  but  the  sum  at  my 
disposal  is  about  enough  for  a  doll's  budget.  You 
could  hold  it  on  the  tip  of  a  knife ;  it  is  inexorably 
minute. 

Besides,  girl  that  I  am,  I  do  not  possess  overly 
much  of  that  courageous  ingenuity  and  imagina- 
tion which  go  so  far,  nor  of  the  determination 
which  clenches  its  fists  and  stares  a  sombre 
defiance, 

Lovef  Why  does  one  never  foresee  that  there 
will  be  accounts  and  money  cares,  so  important 
and  so  tormenting,  and  at  the  very  start?  Why 
doesn't  one  know  that  these  things  take  prece- 
dence over  love,  over  everything  in  daily  life? 

You  have  to  get  up  to  do  the  marketing  an 
hour  earlier  than  you're  used  to.  You  have  to 
learn  to  sew  because  a  new  dress  and  the  joy  of 


80  WOMAN 

pleasing  liim  are  a  wish  of  love,  but  also  represent 
a  sum  of  money. 

At  the  time  I  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  an  im- 
mense triumph  that  he  was  comfortable  and  happy 
when  he  returned  home.  There  was  the  delight 
his  surprise  gave  me  when,  with  great  pride,  I 
produced  some  jolly-looking  fruit  for  dessert. 
And  see — there  was  the  modest  glory  of  having 
been  able  to  buy  the  lovely  flowers  for  his  room 
with  my  own  coppers. 

As  a  girl  I  walked  towards  love  anticipating 
fiery  words,  forceful  looks,  and  two  solemn  pres- 
ences  ...   I  used  to  say  to  myself :  Love !  .   .  . 

And  behold,  by  way  of  humble  events  and 
simple  tasks  I  have  found  the  affirmation  of  love. 


in 


We  were  sleeping  side  by  side,  our  breathing 
intermingled;  and  nothing  was  sweeter  than  this 
nearness  of  our  slumber. 

He  put  out  the  lamp  and  stretched  himself  be- 
side me,  and  we  remained  like  that,  silent,  drowned 
in  sweetness  and  the  night.  It  was  a  living  im- 
pression of  repose. 

Beside  his  close  warmth  a  torpidity  brooded,  for 
the  days  were  exhausting,  and  while  he  raised 
himself  slowly  on  his  elbow  to  lull  me  to  sleep 
with  his  eyes,  I  broke  away  in  spite  of  myself 
from  the  beneficent  clasp  and  fell  asleep  like  a 
child. 


BEING  81 

But  last  night,  although  nearly  midnight,  sleep 
was  slow  in  coming.  He  kissed  my  lips.  Suddenly 
a  strange  will  broke  in  me  .  .  .  What  instinct 
was  I  obeying?  .  .  .  Then  a  violent  repulsion. 
I  knitted  my  brows.    Ah,  I  destested  him  .    .    . 

That  night  it  was  I  who  wide-eyed  and  curious 
watched  him  fall  asleep. 


IV 


There  was  one  second  above  all  .   .    .    . 

If  I  had  had  the  time  to  think,  I  should  have 
thought  that  this  second  was  worth  the  whole  of 
life,  the  whole  of  death,  and  even  more  than  life. 


The  nights  are  links  in  a  chain.  Previously  life 
consisted  of  day  and  night;  white,  black;  black, 
white.    Since  then  life  goes  on  unbrokenly. 


VI 

This  morning  when  I  caught  a  reflection  of 
myself  in  the  shop  windows,  I  noticed  I  had  a 
strange  air  of  authority,  a  self-assurance  quite 
new  and  indefinable,  a  manner  crisper,  more  clear- 
cut.    ^Vlien  I  purchased  my  provisions  I  had  the 


82  WOMAN 

courage  to  haggle,  and  the  market-women  treated 
me  as  an  equal. 

My  firmness  and  decisiveness  have  made  Marie 
reveal  the  pale  ocean  of  her  eyes.  A  distance 
seems  to  have  been  set  between  us. 


VII 


They  point  to  us,  just  stopping  short  of  using 
their  index  fingers,  as  an  example  of  a  happy  cou- 
ple. They  speak  enviously  of  our  great  good  for- 
tune as  if  we  were  bound  on  an  adventurous  voy- 
age on  which  you  embark  only  once  in  your  life. 

What  do  their  ''young  couple,"  their  "happy 
pair"  mean?  Do  people  really  imagine  that  you 
arrive  at  happiness  so  quickly  and  easily,  and 
that  to  be  sent  off  together  into  the  steep  moun- 
tain country,  life,  is  in  itself  enough  to  make  you 
find  the  fulness  of  life? 

Happy!  .  .  .  When  everything  tends  to  es- 
trange you,  the  opposite  natures  of  man  and 
woman,  their  conflicting  interests,  their  very  phys- 
ical attraction  for  each  other.  Happy!  When 
you  realize  that  two  beings,  however  close  they 
may  be,  are  forever  divided.  When,  no  matter 
how  free  you  are,  marriage  forces  you  to  restrain 
and  prostrate  yourself.  When,  apart  from  your 
joint  life,  you  have  your  own  career  to  pursue. 
And  when,  after  the  day's  work  is  accomplished, 
come  the  night's  kisses  as  if  to  undo  the  good 


BEING  83 

of  the  day's  work — behold  the  body,  the  blood, 
the  lips  of  love — and  you  change  from  friends 
into  lovers  again. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  occasionally  moments  of 
blinding  delight,  and  it  is  sweet  to  lean  on  a  shoul- 
der and  have  a  second  in  the  duel  of  life  and  be 
mth  a  man  who  smiles  and  takes  you  in  his  arms. 

But  to  be  happy!  To  feel  that  your  measure 
is  filled,  that  you  are  yourself  and  him.  .  .  . 
Man  and  woman  are  above  all  enemies ;  you  feel 
it  at  every  turn.  And  yet  you  tell  yourself  that 
at  the  heart  of  some  inaccessible  firmament  there 
does  exist  a  sublime  harmony  and  it  must  be  at- 
tained, even  if  the  road  to  it  is  superhuman  and 
your  strength  fails.  And  this  harmony  and  this 
road  must  be  taken  afresh  every  day,  if  ever  one 
approaches  them,  for  a  human  being  changes  from 
day  to  day. 

I  am  already  somewhat  stronger  and  simpler, 
and  somewhat  appeased,  but  still  we  are  not 
*' happy"  as  yet. 


vin 

It  is  true ;  she  was  sincere  .    .    . 

While  talking  she  cast  off  her  enormous  furs 
and  fiddled  with  her  rings  in  the  unconscious  wish 
to  remove  them.  Her  restless  head  was  set  high 
on  a  neck  encircled  by  pearls.  Minus  the  litter 
of  ornaments  she  would  have  tempted  you  to  hold 
your  hand  out  to  her. 


84  WOMAN 

The  landscape,  swallowed  up  in  long  gulps  by 
the  window  of  the  railway-coach,  had  a  sombre 
fascination  for  her,  because  it  was  moving  almost 
as  fast  as  her  pain.  You  saw  her  shoulders 
gradually  shrink  together  and  slowly  draw  down 
the  beautiful  column  of  flesh  supporting  her  head. 
Then  you  saw  them  raised  helplessly  to  ask  the 
eternal  question,  ''What  shall  I  do?"  And  then 
you  saw  them  in  the  characteristic  gesture  of  all 
sufferers — thrown  back  as  if  to  toss  off  the  pack 
of  unhappiness  loaded  on  her  back. 

Her  story  burst  and  rose  in  precipitate  bubbles. 
Her  voice,  at  moments,  broke.  The  woman  at  her 
side  remained  perfectly  calm,  walled  up  in  the 
dull  indifference  accompanying  the  forties.  At 
the  jolting  of  the  train  she  merely  shook  her  head 
— was  she  listening? — and  turned  toward  the  fly- 
ing window  where  her  own  story  was  passing. 

Darkness  would  soon  be  falling.  So  I  had  an 
excuse  for  going  to  sleep,  and  as  soon  as  I  shut 
my  eyes  the  young  woman  took  up  her  tale  of 
woe  anew,  twice,  three  times,  ten  times.  The 
whole  of  her  misery  escaped  from  under  a  mask 
of  restraint. 

''And  listen,  the  other  day  .    .    .*' 

Did  I  need  to  hear  what  she  was  going  to  sayf 

At  the  end  of  one  sentence  I  caught  "my  little 
girls."  I  could  see  her  little  daughters — exactly 
alike,  well-behaved,  in  airy  frocks,  two  heads  with 
long,  elastic  curls,  a  twin  step  in  walking — the 
sort  of  children  who  are  their  parents  all  over 
again    and    invariably    provoke    the    question, 


BEING  85 

"Wliom  does  she  look  like — her  father  or  her 
mother?"  as  if  you  have  to  search  into  a  child's 
origin. 

I  could  see  her  husband  too.  Haven't  all  these 
women  the  same  way  of  saying  ''my  husband"? 
I  could  see  him  short,  bustling,  jovial — really  not 
a  bad  sort — and  with  a  chubby  face,  the  only 
kind  I  could  possibly  match  up  with  the  young 
woman's  insipid  face.  Though  she  said  no- 
thing of  a  garden,  I  imagined  a  very  strait-laced 
one  with  rectilinear,  timidly-flowering  walks,  the 
sort  of  garden  that  is  not  cherished  with  love. 
And  I  also  saw  the  family  in  their  home,  a  sub- 
stantial white-stone  ornate  building.  I  raised  my 
eyes  furtively.  I  must  have  got  a  poor  view  of 
her  when  she  came  in  an  hour  ago.  Now  she 
looked  pretty.  Her  features  were  regular,  her 
color  had  heightened,  her  quivering  mouth  showed 
her  lips  to  the  fullest,  and  her  distressed  hand, 
pushing  back  her  hair,  disclosed  a  brow  eloquent, 
smooth  and  flawless  as  ivory.  Certain  women 
derive  their  entire  beauty  from  the  pathetic.  She 
was  one  of  themj 

Her  eyes  turned  from  the  scenery;  I  lowered 
my  lids. 

''He  doesn't  understand  me  any  more  .  .  . 
it's  all  over  .  .  .  I  am  nothing  to  him  .  .  .  still 
...   a  love  match  .    .    . " 

The  scraps  of  her  plaint  were  borne  off  by  the 
wind,  the  engine  snorted  more  vigorously,  and  the 
last  remnants  went  down  with  me  in  the  roar  of  a 
far-off,  formidable  lullaby. 


86  WOMAN 

I  soon  awoke.  Still  bemoaning  her  lot,  with  the 
same  phrase,  it  seemed  to  me,  always  at  the  same 
point.  She  went  on  with  such  bitter  persistence 
that  in  the  end  you  couldn't  help  learning  her 
-story  by  heart.  I  did  at  any  rate.  The  two  women 
kept  looking  at  each  other — shadowy  vis-a-vis — ' 
the  younger  one  far  from  the  other,  far  from  us, 
far  from  everything,  rooted  in  her  life,  in  her 
square  garden,  in  her  thirty  years.  It  was  as  if 
she  were  talking  aloud  for  the  first  time. 

I  listened.  Each  detail  revealed  a  year,  a  cor- 
ner of  the  house,  an  important  event.  I  felt  a 
dull  rage  fermenting  in  me  instead  of  the  timidity 
and  compunction  one  usually  experiences  in  tres- 
passing upon  another's  inmost  recesses. 

Why?  Perhaps  because  I,  a  stranger,  had  not 
the  power  to  interpose  and  hold  the  secret  of 
this  trouble  so  as  to  remedy  it. 

Ah,  I  no  longer  need  to  listen  nor  need  to  know 
the  man  in  order  to  feel  that  he  is  right  to  lose 
himself  in  his  business  and  be  merely  a  good 
father  who  sees  in  his  wife  nothing  but  the  mother 
of  his  children  and  shrugs  his  shoulders  when 
she  heaves  with  sighs. 

The  evening  air  was  blowing  in  cooler  through 
the  upper  half  of  the  window.  We  were  entering 
a  plain  where  the  green  of  the  meadows  was  deep- 
ening into  mauve.  Two  rows  of  trees,  which  had 
been  a  profile  against  the  sky  when  seen  from 
afar,  turned  into  a  black  curtain  suddenly  drawn. 
Here  and  there  houses  stood  out  as  though  grop- 
ing in  the  dark — faces  blotted  out  as  soon  as 


BEING  87 

arisen — one  field  swallowed  up  the  next ;  the  rag- 
ged line  of  a  hedge  came  and  went;  an  embank- 
ment followed,  its  slope  daubed  with  bro^vn,  un- 
wholesome stains,  its  top  dressed  with  tufted 
grass  and  straggling  bushes,  which  moved  their 
arms  like  signals. 

The  young  woman's  brows  were  drawn.  She 
was  questioning  the  obscure  flickering  stretch  of 
space.  I  read  the  questions  in  her  face :  AYhy  does 
he  merely  graze  her  forehead  when  he  comes  back 
in  the  evening?  Why  does  he  keep  her  out  of 
everything?  Why  does  he  never  feast  on  her 
presence  or  heed  her  advice?  How  did  he  love 
her?  She  had  been  right  a  short  while  before 
when  she  had  said  bitterly:  "A  little  less  than  a 
prostitute,  a  little  more  than  a  servant." 

The  woman  was  certainly  suffering  and  calling 
upon  a  God  who  could  not  answer.  At  night  when 
the  close  jealous  house  is  asleep,  she  undoubtedly 
falls  to  her  knees  in  secret  and  wrings  her  barren 
hands  and  invokes  misery,  love,  grief,  as  if  the 
sacred  words  were  for  the  whole  world.  Thou,  God 
whom  she  implores,  Thou  knowest  well  the  reason 
of  her  trouble,  a  simple  reason,  brutal,  elementary. 
Why  dost  Thou  let  her  hunt  for  others? 

I  threw  myself  back  because  I  both  wanted  and 
feared  that  my  face  might  betray  me. 

The  Midi  was  beginning,  the  first  olive  trees 
were  rounding  off  the  landscape,  the  night  sky 
was  already  smiling  in  the  rosy  light  of  dawn. 

In  our  times  no  woman  has  the  right  to  live 


88  WOMAN 

Tiiider  the  shelter  of  a  man's  labor.  The  woman 
who  dares  to  accept  such  shelter  should  abdicate 
and  commit  her  dignity  to  the  hands  that  are  pro- 
ductive. She  should  consent  to  her  dethronement 
and  take  the  condescending  love  that  is  fed  to  the 
weaker  without  complaining. 

Men  begin — the  women  know  it  well — ^by  ador- 
ing this  weakness.  ' '  My  wife, ' '  that  piece  of  frag- 
ility, those  useless  days,  those  little  arms  which 
don't  know  how  to  do  anything,  the  jewels  he 
brings  home,  the  great  astonished  eyes,  the  minc- 
ing steps,  everything  that  is  touching  and  con- 
trasts with  the  struggle  of  his  existence.  Then 
he  comes  to  extract  pride  from  this  relation.  ''It 
is  I  who  protect,  sustain,  feed  her.  It  is  I  .  .  .  '* 
He  mounts  a  few  steps  higher  and  sees  her  a  little 
lower,  incapable,  infantile,  unequal  to  battle,  un- 
equal to  his  power.  Each  day  inevitably  finds 
them  a  little  farther  apart,  and  she  in  approach- 
ing him  is  bound  to  raise  her  eyes  while  he  con- 
descends. If  his  love  lasts  it  takes  the  very  form 
of  contempt,  though  neither  is  conscious  of  it. 
Which  is  just  and  proper. 

A  woman  supported  by  her  husband  has  no 
right  to  protest.  If  she  is  not  earning  her  living, 
she  should  have  some  work  to  do,  should  use  her 
arms,  her  idle  strength,  her  health.  Merely  bring- 
ing children  into  the  world  is  not  enough. 

The  fat  lady  starts  up  from  her  entrenchment 
of  cushions.  "We  are  almost  there.  We  must  get 
ready." 

Bags  pulled  open   emit   the   animal   odor  of 


BEING  89 

leather  and  give  out  nickel  glints  as  they  are 
snapped  shut  again.  Then  the  fire  of  the  rings 
disappears  under  the  gloves.  "We  are  there!" 
They  are  now  quite  free  to  stare  at  me. 

What  a  metamorphosis.  She  has  resumed  her 
former  appearance  of  a  lady.  She  is  scarcely 
pretty.  In  the  glimmer  of  the  night-lamp  she 
seems  sharp-featured  and  masked  by  a  ghastly 
pallor,  as  if  the  generous  sun  had  abjured  her 
forever. 

Each  turn  of  the  wheels  brings  us  closer  to  the 
town.  The  young  woman  drawing  herself  up  re- 
assumes  her  manner  of  a  somebody.  She  is  back 
in  her  setting,  already  less  unhappy  because  she 
is  nearer  her  unhappiness.  She  pulls  out  her 
watch.  Five  minutes  still.  Time  enough  to  lean 
on  one's  elbow  and  think  sad  thoughts  pro  tern, 
which  come  running  like  a  docile  flock. 

I  put  my  hand  up  to  my  forehead  to  prevent 
her  searching  my  eyes  for  the  fountain  of  com- 
passion denied  her.  There  is  no  compassion  for 
her  in  me,  neither  is  there  in  the  opal-tinted 
meadows,  nor  under  the  sapphire  of  the  sky.  To 
find  compassion  she  would  have  to  reconstruct  her 
life  from  top  to  bottom.  A  fate  such  as  hers 
lies  outside  the  fate  of  humanity;  suffering  such 
as  hers  is  beside  and  apart  from  the  suffering  of 
humanity.  I  say  her  fate  has  not  made  her  suffer 
enough  yet  and  the  woman  does  not  deserve  to 
live. 

A  woman  who  does  nothing  is  fallen  in  the  sight 
of  love. 


90  WOMAN 

He  and  I  are  going  to  the  country  on  our  holi- 
day.   I  have  been  thirsty  for  its  freshness.   .    .    . 

The  carriage  is  empty  now.  You  feel  the  double 
pulse  of  the  train  as  it  rolls  between  two  slopes 
spitting  out  rings  of  smoke,  pursued,  you'd  think, 
by  its  own  speed,  travelling  on,  on,  on  .    .    . 


IX 


We've  been  here  a  week. 

Strange  days,  without  axis  or  prop  or  stay, 
passed  as  if  outside  of  something,  as  if  you  had 
been  asked  to  step  up  to  a  door  but  not  invited 
inside.    Nature  is  not  easy  to  reach  and  penetrate. 

We  had  longed  to  live  in  this  spot  conceiving 
it  beforehand  as  an  oasis  set  in  dew.  And  here  it 
is  under  our  feet  with  its  earth  which  smells  good 
and  its  breezes  which  tinge  our  cheeks.  For  all 
our  ardor  and  assiduity  nature  preserves  her 
mystery;  she  is  an  unresponsive  mother  insensible 
to  the  clamor  of  her  children.  When  we  draw 
near,  she  stops  talking  and  either  drops  a  veil  or 
retires  completely  into  seclusion.  ''You  would 
like  to  assay  my  movements,  cull  the  delicate  scent 
of  the  grass  blade  by  blade,  meditate  like  this  tree, 
follow  the  steps  of  the  peasants  who  are  my  only 
kith  and  kin,  be  a  wave  in  space,  unravel  the  rela- 
tions of  things,  and  delude  yourselves  with  my 
warmth.  That  is  what  everybody  wants.  May 
your  wish  recoil  on  you.    Do  not  try  to  reach  me. 


BEING  91 

Do  not  turn  your  heads  in  my  direction.  Let  the 
thrills  and  tremors  of  your  feelings  pass  between 
yourselves.    I  know  you  not." 

In  order  to  arrive  at  a  mutual  understanding 
with  nature,  one  undoubtedly  must  have  more  of 
the  heart  of  a  recluse,  a  body  more  inclined  earth- 
ward, a  face  of  greater  taciturnity.  We  are  in- 
truders. 

It  is  only  in  the  evening  that  you  blend  and  fall 
into  harmony  with  everything.  Night  awaits  you 
— you  see — below  the  horizon,  and  we  set  out  to 
meet  it. 

We  take  each  other's  arms,  I  feel  my  joy  pre- 
paring; he  smiles  at  the  care  I  take  to  prevent 
his  catching  cold,  and  off  we  go,  arm  in  arm, 
tramjDing  to  the  tune  of  a  sounding  tread  like  two 
comrades  who  once  were  schoolmates. 

The  little  nestling  village  lies  far  behind;  at  a 
gulp  the  turn  in  the  road  swallows  up  the  last  hut. 
The  landscape  ahead  is  still  variegated,  but  as  it 
draws  gently  nearer  the  colors  wane,  the  ground 
flattens,  the  features  relax  as  in  a  face  after  a 
smile. 

Silence  .  .  .  Twilight  within  us  is  falling  also. 
To  admit  it  we  watch  the  surrounding  dusk  with 
swelling  chests  and  quivering  nostrils. 

On  the  rising  ground  opposite  a  yellow  point  is 
kindled,  another  and  another,  performing  an  un- 
conscious duty — to  usher  in  the  night.  And  night 
is  now  here.  Close  by,  in  the  fields,  she  has  al- 
ready drowned  the  olive-trees,  which  have  no  com- 
fjact  mass  to  offer  in  resistance,  scarcely  even  any 


92  WOMAN 

outlines,  defenseless,  except  for  their  hundred- 
year-old  trunks.  Their  life  is  a  thing  of  quivering, 
silvery  breezes,  and  when  the  darkness  comes 
slinking  and  whispering,  a  breath  will  lull  their 
gray-lined  brows  to  sleep. 

Along  the  embankment  on  either  side  of  the 
road,  trees — you  can't  tell  what  sort  of  trees  any 
more — make  great  human  gestures,  as  if  to  give 
warning  of  a  drama  about  to  begin.  Instinctively 
we  quicken  our  pace  and  draw  closer  together. 
The  rich  blood  runs  lively  in  our  veins.  We  share 
a  fleeting  warmth. 

And  now  noises  spring  up,  noises  that  belong  to 
night  alone  and  are  a  part  of  its  peacef ulness ; 
mournful  hayings,  which  echo  throws  back  faith- 
fully from  yon  slope;  the  croaking  of  the  frogs, 
which  blight  the  heart  of  the  atmosphere ;  a  human 
call  now  and  then,  direct  and  piercing,  and  from 
the  ground  the  metallic  chirping  of  the  crickets. 

How  at  ease  you  feel,  full  of  loving-kindness, 
and  how  sincere  you  are.  You  have  sins  lurking 
in  your  flesh,  crimes  piled  up  in  your  brain,  a 
sombre  mood  inhabiting  your  heart.  Everything 
can  be  confessed  and  laid  bare.  The  night  is  all- 
comprehending.  Night-time  is  different  from  the 
stiffly  starched  daytime  with  its  color  and  form 
to  distract  man  from  his  intimate  verity.  You  can 
venture  upon  the  wildest  thoughts,  expand  to  your 
uttermost  limits,  forget  your  own  existence,  and 
discard  all  past  gestures.  They  were  all  inade- 
quate. You  don't  want  to  retain  any  of  them  ex- 
cept the  gesture  you  would  make  here — spread 


BEING  93 

your  arms  while  walking  and  hold  your  hands 
open  like  two  pure,  empty  chalices. 

Complete  blackness  now.  You  can  no  longer 
distinguish  between  silence  and  space,  fear  and 
the  rustling ;  all  things  are  merged  in  each  other, 
trees  with  trees,  their  masses  with  the  slope,  aud 
the  slope,  deprived  of  its  contours,  with  the  sky, 
which  has  come  down  to  join  the  earth.  Every- 
thing is  blended,  obliterated.  The  very  cypresses, 
during  the  daytime  a  spear  thrust  at  the  azure, 
are  also  added  to  the  darkness. 

Beneath  our  eyes,  tired  from  not  seeing  any- 
thing, the  road  kindly  extends  its  vaporous  pallor. 
Except  for  the  road  no  line  to  arrest  the  impulse 
within,  no  perspective.  The  only  clear  things,  our 
own  figures. 

We  have  never  before  entered  such  solitude  to- 
gether, nor  ever  before  been  laid  so  bare  to  each 
other.  It  makes  us  Avalk  slowly  and  solemnly,  as 
if  we  were  passing  beneath  the  eye  of  God. 

The  idea  of  us  as  a  couple.    We.    We  two. 

Must  an  idea,  then,  remain  implanted  in  the 
hearts  of  human  beings  in  order  to  keep  them  up- 
right? If  I  did  not  feel  the  pulsing  of  my  love 
constraining  me  to  live,  the  night,  with  no  reason 
to  respect  my  spirit,  would  stretch  me  out,  I  fancy, 
on  any  chance  slope  beneath  the  large  serenity. 

But  I  am  upheld.  Every  intake  of  fresh  air 
gives  a  new  thrill  and  a  youthful  vigor  to  the  idea 
in  my  heart,  and  I  feel  it  mounting  so  swiftly  that 
I  must  run  to  keep  up  with  it.    So  as  to  hold  it 


94  WOMAN 

fast  for  my  protection  I  rake  together  my  loveliest 
recollections.  Are  my  loveliest  recollections  those 
of  our  nights  in  each  other's  arms,  onr  kisses,  the 
storm  that  beat  against  our  bodies?  .  .  .  No, 
they  are  not.  As  I  raise  my  eyes  to  where  the 
firmament  should  be — if  it  still  exists — I  find  the 
blessed  peacefulness  which  comes  from  his  pres- 
ence. The  sentiment  that  grips  my  heart  when  I 
feel  myself  taking  part  in  his  life  is  lofty.  It 
has  something  in  it  of  respect,  and  trust,  and  pity; 
it  is  hard  to  say  just  what.  It  spurs  me  to  action, 
even  to  boldness,  and  it  raises  around  me  a  strong 
wall  in  which  I  am  secure. 

This  is  not  a  recollection ;  it  is  a  bit  of  the  fu- 
ture, and  the  future  alone  is  what  you  discover 
as  you  go  forward  into  the  infinite.  At  one  bound 
you  mount  to  the  summits  of  love.  Love  is  the 
future  magnetized  by  the  heart. 

He  is  there.  His  profile  is  massive  in  outline. 
He  towers  over  the  sunken  country,  the  clods 
crunch  beneath  his  feet.  I  walk  close  beside  him. 
I  ask  for  nothing.  Maybe  my  only  wish  is  that 
my  footsteps  should  make  less  noise  and  my  shoul- 
ders take  up  less  room. 

But  I  have  another  wish.  I  know  what  it  is. 
Although  I  love  him  with  my  whole  heart,  I  want 
to  love  him  more.  One  does  not  attain  to  love 
once  for  all;  the  heart  can  never  be  filled  to  the 
full.  How  far  shall  we  go  ?  I  can  go  on  and  on 
without  stopping  and  outdistance  the  sources  of 
the  night ;  my  youth  is  inexhaustible,  my  feet  will 
never  weary.    I  want  to  love  him  more. 


BEING  95 

Space  heaves  a  deeper  breath.  She  is  traversed 
by  currents,  scoops  of  darkness,  aromatic  whiffs. 
The  perfume  sweetens  the  lips;  flowers  must  be 
dotting  this  hedge.  And  suddenly  space  goes 
mad.  A  black  wind  swirls  down  from  the  tree- 
tops  and  fills  the  nocturnal  expanse  with  the 
creaking  of  branches. 

Must  w^e  stop  at  the  greatest  moment,  at  the 
point  where  the  road  looks  supernatural,  as 
though  it  possessed  a  density  of  its  own  and 
were  suspended  in  space?  ...  I  should  have 
liked  to  walk  further ;  one  never  goes  far  enough. 
Must  we  really  return  to  the  stolid  lamp  and 
babbling  kisses? 

Not  immediately.  Let  us  prolong  this  great 
sombre  moment.  Let  us  stay  here  where  even 
time  might  come  to  a  standstill.  The  trees  droop 
lower  here,  and  in  these  tranquil  meadows  the 
spirit  may  play  hide-and-seek. 

It  is  really  unhappiness  that  makes  you  stop. 
I  return  from  the  night ;  all  I  bring  back  is  this 
strangled  throat,  a  body  like  a  tortoise-shell  cov- 
ering a  silent  heart  and  blinded  eyes. 

If  I  emerge  from  myself,  disconsolateness  ev- 
erywhere, spread  all  over  the  world.  The  sleep- 
ing desert.   .    .    . 

He  is  close  beside  me,  but  since  he  lives,  he  can 
do  nothing  for  me.  I  can  do  nothing  for  him.  I 
used  to  think  that  in  loving  him  I  crowned  him. 


96  WOMAN 

Love  is  not  enough.  This  evening  I  saw  his  life 
rise  from  the  ground,  distinct  from  love,  outside 
of  mine ;  I  saw  his  life,  bared  to  all  the  winds,  iso- 
lated from  everything,  raise  and  satisfy  itself.  I 
see  that  this  is  right. 

His  life  is  complete  in  itself,  unique  and  impor- 
tant ;  his  life  is  not  merely  the  image  that  inspires 
me,  the  voice  that  I  evoke,  the  face  I  love  dearly. 
His  life  is  an  insuperable  force,  vivid,  inviolable 
and  free,  which  my  heart  out  of  sheer  love  of  him 
failed  to  recognize.  I  was  right  a  few  minutes 
ago  to  want  to  blot  myself  out,  because  I  ought 
not  to  count.  Beyond  my  limited,  restricted  pres- 
ence, he  has  the  whole  of  infinity  to  breathe  in. 

Then  where  are  the  nights  which  are  to  en- 
lighten me  1  Of  him  I  know  nothing  but  my  love, 
nothing  except  that  by  his  very  existence  he  con- 
tradicts what  I  know  of  him.  Who  will  tell  me 
how  far  I  must  go  and  to  what  I  must  attain!  I 
have  slept  in  his  arms,  I  have  lived  side  by  side 
with  all  his  cares,  and  I  have  given  myself  up  to 
him  with  a  joy  like  unto  which  there  is  nothing. 
All  I  have  given  is  myself.  And  yet  more  is  neces- 
sary. 

And  a  great  conviction  rises  up  straight  and 
strong  and  shines  as  if  a  light  had  sprung  from 
the  midst  of  the  meadows. 

I  am  only  a  woman,  I  can  think  only  spasmod- 
ically. I  love  as  one  weeps,  but  there  comes 
a  day  of  which  this  is  the  night,  on  which 
your  forehead  touches  the  profound  truth.    You 


BEING  97 

feel  the  loving-kindness  of  your  heart  aroused, 
and  you  oddly  understand  that  the  perfect  union 
of  man  and  woman  has  never  been  part  of  the 
natural  scheme  of  things,  and  in  order  to  be  happy 
together  it  is  not  enough  to  love  one  another. 

Come.  We  may  return.  Press  me  close  to  you, 
if  you  will,  closer  still.    Don't  let  us  talk. 

I  know  why  I  am  content:  your  arms,  my  all- 
powerful  life,  our  firm  footsteps.  I  do  not  know 
why  the  slight  shadow  seems  to  have  vanished: 
to  live,  go  forward,  pierce  the  narrow  track  of 
the  road  with  your  clear  eyes  for  stars,  follow  a 
night  one  does  not  see   .    .    . 

And  then,  0  God,  in  braving  the  heavens,  to 
understand  with  love  that  which  transcends  love. 


I  hesitate  to  go  out  on  the  street.  I  feel  that 
people's  eyes  are  drawn  to  my  figure.  There's 
no  use  fooling  myself.  The  little  girls  actually 
point  to  me  with  furtive,  vinegary  glances,  for  they 
are  more  ingenuously  hypocritical  than  women. 
Their  insistent  gaze  embarrasses  me. 

Two  long  months  to  wait  before  the  first  cry  of 
my  child!  If  only  I  carried  nothing  beside  my 
child.  I  feel  also  an  imprisoned  love  developing 
which,  beats  at  the  bars  of  its  cage  and  chafes  so 
that  I  don't  know  how  to  distract  it. 


98  WOMAN 

The  layette  is  quite  ready;  swaddling-bands 
warm  to  the  touch,  chemises  like  a  doll's,  caps 
which  will  never  be  of  use;  the  equipment  of  a 
marionette;  linen  as  soft  as  lint,  bibs  round  and 
puffy  as  cockades.  I  have  spread  everything  out 
in  front  of  me,  and  each  article  as  it  passes 
through  my  hands  assumes  a  shadowy  lifelikeness. 

Two  months  before  I  shall  really  know  whether 
I  am  to  be  like  other  mothers,  a  brooding  hen,  with 
folded  wings  and  in-turned  heart,  passionate  for 
my  own  children,  cattish  and  carping  in  my  atti- 
tude toward  other  children.  Two  months  before  I 
shall  know  the  secret  force  of  that  wild  love  which, 
they  say,  springs  up  all  at  once. 

I  am  being  initiated  however.  The  other  women 
give  me  a  hearty  welcome ;  they  make  the  impres- 
sion of  crowding  together  to  make  room  for  me. 
A  real  sisterhood?  Or  the  iaaperceptible  joy  of 
seeing  a  rival  temporarily  diminished?  Under 
their  escc  ct  I  enter  into  the  forbidden  arcana. 

''What  dc  you  feel?    I ''    They  make  me  a 

target  for  their  reminiscences. 

Each  shamelessly  outdoes  the  other.  From  the 
quantity  and  finished  preciseness  of  the  details 
narrated  I  infer  that  the  story  has  been  oft  told. 
The  least  loquacious  are  the  mothers  who  ''have 
had  a  lot  of  them."  These  have  nothing  left  but  a 
vast,  frequently  refreshed  memory  in  which  their 
life  merges  in  a  blur  with  the  life  they  have  so 
many  times  carried  beneath  their  hearts. 

Which  of  them  am  I  to  believe?  Many  have 
broached  the  subject  to  me,  many  have  discussed 


BEING  99 

it,  none  has  told  me  the  secret  of  being  a  mother, 
the  word  that  would  reveal,  the  sign,  flashing  and 
disappearing,  by  which  the  treasure  awaiting  me 
would  shine  from  afar,  which  would  make  me  un- 
derstand. I  have  heard  them  bemoan  the  misery 
of  the  months  before  childbirth  and  the  sufferings 
of  childbirth  itself.  I  have  heard  them  boast,  with 
the  reverence  of  fetich-worship,  of  the  care  they 
gave  their  little  ones.  But  here  their  maternity 
stops.  I  still  do  not  know.  I  have  two  months 
to  wait. 

I  plunge  my  fingers  into  the  milky  mass  of  the 
little  garments.  "Do  you,"  I  say  to  my  husband, 
''see  the  head  of  your  child  underneath  this  hood? 
Let  us  try  to)  imagine   .    .    .  " 

He  smiles  without  answering,  shaken  in  his 
flesh,  so  lucid  and  so  well  prepared  for  his  ap- 
proaching fatherhood  that  I  feel  myself  a  hundred 
leagues  behind.  He,  at  least,  knows  why  he  will 
love  his  child,  why  he  already  loves  it. 

As  for  me,  my  vision  is  obscured  by  the  discon- 
certing pictures  drawn  by  the  other  women.  Per- 
haps also  I  am  under  the  ancestral  pressure  ex- 
erted by  the  long  line  of  my  foremothers.  Why 
should  I  be  different?  "What  quality  would  make 
me  better? 

The  animal  heaviness  reasserts  its  rights.  My 
body  is  an  unwieldy  sheath  overspread  with  sleepi- 
ness, ramified  by  thick  blood,  its  cells  given  over 
to  contented,  torpid  well-being.  My  very  heart  is 
struck  with  stupor. 

To  lie  at  full  length  on  my  bed  beneath  the 


100  WOMAN 

weight  of  my  breasts  of  rock,  no  longer  to  move  or 
think,  only  to  feel  at  momentary  intervals  a  light 
stirring,  a  caress,  which  gently  turns  on  its  self 
and  folds  its  wings. 


XI 


I  scarcely  dare  to  get  up.  She  knew  me  in  my 
slenderness  of  the  previous  summer,  when  I  took 
the  torrid  paths  like  a  goat  leaping  dangerous 
mountain  tracks.  It  was  from  my  brisk  manner 
of  ready,  go !  she  told  me,  that  she  could  tell  how 
warm  our  love  was. 

We  were  living  in  the  same  inn.  The  very  first 
day  I  was  struck  by  the  blooming  youthfulness  of 
this  woman  who  so  skilfully  escaped  the  burden  of 
the  forties  and  constantly  trailed  a  lover,  a  lover 
with  a  vindictive  eye  and  bullish  neck  and  fore- 
head. Perhaps  on  close  inspection  you  might  sus- 
pect the  fine  tracery  of  wrinkles  on  her  transpar- 
ent skin.  Nevertheless  she  shone  resplendent  as 
we  younger  women  don't  know  how  to  shine. 

Black  on  white,  a  head  surcharged  with  mys- 
tery and  night,  two  jewels,  no,  two  green  pools,  a 
mouth  that  revealed  the  shape  of  a  kiss  better  than 
other  mouths,  a  figure  not  very  tall  but  with  a  race 
and  suppleness  which  lent  dignity.  Clothes 
planned  to  reveal  the  curves  of  her  body.  Move- 
ments kindling  I  know  not  what  lights.  Woman, 
in  short,  with  all  a  woman  has  in  her  of  the  veno- 
mous and  the  childlike. 


BEING  101 

We  sat  directly  opposite  each  other  at  table. 
The  charm,  of  her  vivid  smile,  glowing  face,  and 
darting  movements  turned  the  frugal  meal  for  me 
into  a  riotous  feast. 

One  morning  as  I  was  starting  out  on  a  walk  by 
myself  for  now^here  in  particular  she  came  up  to 
me  in  an  easy  spontaneous  way,  as  if  there  really 
did  exist  a  sisterhood  among  women.  Part  of  her 
loveliness  was  a  deep,  maternal  voice;  in  crystal 
tones  she  jDlunged  into  a  surprising  eulog}^  of  the 
relationship  between  my  husband  and  me.  She 
had  noticed  us.  How  perfectly  united  we  must  be ! 
''Married?  Absurd!"  She  pouted.  But  we  had 
such  a  way  of  locking  arms,  and  looking  and  wait- 
ing for  each  other,  also  such  a  .    .    . 

She  went  on  talking  and  talking.  I  was  rather 
bewildered  .  .  .  Was  it  really  us  she  was  de- 
scribing— sombre  with  passion,  eagerly  relishing  a 
concord  that  was  pregnant  with  storms  which 
might  break  suddenly  from  a  clear  sky?  Wasn't 
it  more  like  her  own  love  ?  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
answer.  Still  I  could  not  recognize  ourselves. 
She  clutched  me  and  laughingly  declared  I  was  a 
little  savage,  and  my  being  a  little  savage  pleased 
her. 

We  came  to  where  the  country  takes  a  sudden 
dip,  so  that  to  be  visible  to  the  heavens  it  has  to 
cling  to  the  bronzed  trunks  of  the  half-stripped 
cork-trees.  We  went  on  breasting  the  wind.  I 
knitted  my  brows.  Everything  she  said  breathed, 
at  least,  to  me,  another  age  or  another  sphere;  it 
all  hinged  on  love,  was  dedicated  to  love,  and  by 


102  WOMAN 

that  very  fact  created  a  distance  between  us.  I 
saw  her  cramped  and  confined  by  the  very  thing 
that  gave  her  so  much  vitality;  I  saw  it  was  her 
crucifixion.  She  was  nothing  but  the  instinct  for 
love  restricted  to  the  need  of  man.  Nevertheless 
she  attracted  me. 

We  got  to  know  each  other  better.  She  aston- 
ished me  more  and  more.  Whether  she  and  her 
lover  carried  on  a  squally  conversation  on  the 
bench  in  the  hall  or  whether  she  wandered  along 
the  narrow,  brambly  paths  in  a  sort  of  ferocious 
abandon,  or  whether  she  came  to  me  and  threw 
her  thorny  crown  at  my  feet  with  a  radiant  ges- 
ture, she  was  Woman  as  men  have  described  her, 
as  they  have  wanted  her.  She  was  the  ancient 
bearer  of  a  fatal  property,  the  creature  who  either 
subdues  her  opponent  or  is  subdued  by  him,  and 
knows  nothing  else;  the  sorry  creature  of  tears 
and  fascinations   .    .    . 

She  never  spoke  of  her  life  or  of  herself.  We 
were  two  women,  our  lot  therefore  was  the  same, 
she  was  in  love,  I  was  in  love.  What  else  need 
one  want  ? 

''Good-bye  for  the  present,"  she  cried  as  the 
cart  set  off  down  the  road  at  a  snail's  pace.  She 
stood  with  her  head  inclined  tenderly  sidewise  and 
her  floating  veil  prolonging  the  farewell  .  .  . 
There  was  a  bend  in  the  road.  I  thought  that  was 
to  be  my  last  view  of  her. 

But  a  little  while  ago  as  I  was  going  to  lie  down, 
an  imperious  ring  tore  the  silence.  Actually  she, 
her  smile,  her  veil,  her  dress  a  tangle  of  silver. 


BEING  103 

"What  a  pretty  little  nest!  How  comfortable 
you  must  be !    Well,  well.    Still  liappy  ? ' ' 

And  then — there ! — her  laugh  with  a  little  sav- 
agery in  it.  She  notices  that  I  am  expecting  a 
baby.  ''Well,  of  all  things!"  She  throws  her 
gloves  into  the  air,  seats  herself,  gets  up  again, 
and  from  her  hectic  restlessness  I  infer  that  she 
feels  defrauded.  Mj  home  is  too  cozy  and  my 
manner  too  tranquil.  Not,  of  course,  that  she 
wants  to  find  me  in  misfortune,  but  it's  as  though 
I  have  passed  over  into  an  enemy's  camp. 

She  has  come  because  she  is  in  trouble.  I  do 
my  best.  I  hold  her  hands  in  mine  and  try  to 
trace  the  ravages  of  grief  on  her  faun  face  because 
she  keeps  saying:  "I'm  so  miserable."  She  must 
be  suffering.    But  I  cannot  get  myself  to  be  moved. 

This  is  her  story.  Her  lover  has  betra^^ed  her, 
she  is  sure  of  it.  In  tidying  his  drawers  she  found 
letters  from  a  woman  referring  to  a  recent  ren- 
dezvous. She  thought  she'd  die  when  she  read 
them  .  .  .  Still  I  am  unmoved.  She  warms  up 
to  her  theme.  At  breakfast,  then  and  there,  a  ter- 
rible scene ;  they  fly  at  each  other.  .  .  .  Disgust 
seizes  me  .  ,  .  To  show  my  interest  and  stimu- 
late my  pity,  I  ask  some  questions.  "So  you  had 
an  explanation  and  could  come  to  an  understand- 
ing?" She  snatches  her  hands  away  and  draws 
back.     "Aren't  you  listening?" 

To  come  to  an  understanding!  That  would  be 
too  easy.  They  rushed  at  each  other  at  the  first 
pretext,  each  resorting  to  shifts  and  dodges  and 
keeping  silent  as  to  the  real  issue,  though  recog- 
nizing the  other's  grievance.    "lie  beat  me." 


104  WOMAN 

She  closes  her  beautiful  victimized  eyes.  She 
has  displayed  the  seven  wounds  of  her  heart ;  and 
the  least  she  expects  is  the  shelter  of  my  breast 
and  the  succor  of  my  arms.   ... 

' '  But  it  would  be  so  simple  to  tell  each  other  the 
truth  and  try  to  understand  each  other  .    .    .  '* 

She  keeps  her  flexible  panther-like  body  from 
bounding  up.  "The  truth!  what  truth?  Do  you 
think  love  is  so  simple?  He  has  deceived  me. 
That's  the  only  truth  I  need  to  know."  She  gives 
herself  up  to  tears,  and  her  clear  eyes  turn  into 
two  bloodshot  orbs. 

Should  I  tell  her  that  I  am  insensible  to  such 
despair,  and  her  love  is  merely  a  mistake  proceed- 
ing from  books,  it  really  isn't  love?  Should  I  tell 
her  that  love  is  logical  and  simple  at  bottom,  and 
is  less  in  its  transports  than  in  the  gentleness  it 
conveys?  Should  I  tell  her  that  men  like  change 
more  than  women  and  for  a  man  to  snatch  at  a 
passing  temptation  does  not  mean  that  he  is  trying 
to  reach  the  love  he  prefers?     Should  I? 

She  anticipates  me.  ''I  understand,  I  under- 
stand, you  are  not  in  love.  Poor  little  thing,  you'll 
see  when  you  love!"  She  sends  her  prophetic 
look  around  the  orderly  room  and  the,  to  her,  in- 
conceivable quiet.  What  polite  excuse  can  she 
find  for  getting  away  quickly?  She  came  a  long 
way  to  meet  a  real  sister  in  love.  We  ought  to 
have  groaned  together  over  the  common  enemy 
who  is  also  the  common  God;  then  she  would  have 
departed  in  her  honorable  failure  aided  and  rein- 
forced for  the  eternal  contest. 


BEING  105 

Shall  I  let  her  leave  like  this  ?  I  have  been  able 
to  secure  a  serenity  which  she  does  not  surmise ; 
it  would  be  a  charity  to  beg  her  to  try  to  secure 
the  same  serenity.  This  woman  ...  I  shall  say 
to  her:  ''A  beloved  is  neither  a  God  nor  an  enemy, 
he  is  a  friend  you  must  discover  in  spite  of  pas- 
sion. I  know  it's  hard  and  needs  an  iron  will  and 
devotion,  but  I  swear  one  succeeds   .    .    ." 

She  raises  the  window-shade.  Her  face  stands 
out — is  it  the  same? — marred  by  the  light. 

The  borders  of  her  green  eyes  show  the  streaky 
after-effects  of  tears,  her  cheeks  are  lined,  her  lips 
have  lost  their  blood  and  youthful  red,  the  two 
tendons  of  her  lovely  marble  neck  twitch,  and  the 
cherished  body  in  its  holiday  attire  collapses  like 
a  broken  tov. 

I  approach  her,  holding  out  in  my  comradely 
arms  the  new  spirit  that  will  blossom  on  the  new 
earth.  I  am  not  the  only  one ;  other  young  women 
would  speak  as  I  do.  The  love  by  which  we  live 
is  not  like  the  love  the  others  die  of. 

But  when  I  come  close  to  her  she  steps  into  the 
full  light  ...  I  give  up  the  idea  of  explaining 
myself.  There  is  nothing  to  say.  She  is  twenty 
years  older  than  we  are. 


106  WOMAN 


XII 


I  have  the  feeling  that  I  am  not  prepared ;  it  is 
a  sort  of  embarrassment,  an  obscure  terror,  and 
when  I  get  myself  to  say  so  to  the  other  women, 
they  laugh  and  hush  me  up.  ''Don't  worry.  The 
knowledge  comes  of  itself.  Just  being  a  mother 
teaches  you  how  to  raise  a  child. ' ' 

It  was  by  chance  that  I  came  to  this  street.  I 
w^as  walking  along.  The  hospital.  A  dull  flat 
smell  surrounded  the  sordid  building  with  a  lep- 
rous haze.  The  doorway  was  swallowing  up  a 
long  line  of  women  from  off  the  gray  canyon  of 
the  street.  I  do  not  know  what  struck  me — I  re- 
traced my  steps  and  followed  the  women  in. 

"We  were  made  to  wait  in  a  room  heavy  with  a 
brew  of  musty  drug  smells.  Someone  shut  the 
door,  and  immediately  there  broke  out  a  fearful 
hubbub,  a  concert  of  human  meowings,  bawls,  pip- 
ings. A  panic  nearly  seized  me.  With  the  dull 
patience  of  animals  penned  in  together  the  women 
formed  into  groups  and  filled  out  blank  forms, 
rocking  and  bobbing  the  light  fragile  bundles  they 
each  carried  in  their  arms. 

I  went  up  to  one  of  them,  leaned  over  and  looked 
upon  the  crumpled  patch  of  a  little  old  red  face. 
Then  I  realized  I  had  come  there  to  occupy  myself 
in  my  period  of  expectancy  and  catch  a  glimpse  of 
my  child  in  advance. 

The  woman's  face  was  bloodless,  like  the  face  of 
a  drowned  corpse,  and  fanned  by  long  colorless 


BEING  107 

locks  limp  as  seaweed.  Seeing  the  supplication 
in  my  eyes  she  lifted  up  the  thick  dirty-gray  shawl 
with  the  air  of  a  benefactress.  ''Three  months. '^ 
The  first  thing  they  tell  of  a  child  is  its  age. 

The  little  worm  very  leisurely  wrinkled  its  fore- 
head of  peeling  satin  and  stretched  itself,  opened 
two  rather  glassy  eyes  encircled  by  mauve,  and  let 
out  its  guttural  wail  through  a  toothless  aperture 
upholstered  with  flesh.  The  provident  mother  had 
already  pulled  a  rubber  pacifier  out  of  her  pocket, 
which  transformed  the  wail  into  a  monotonous 
greedy  gurgle.  ''Will  you  be  quiet!  They're  an 
awful  trouble.  You'll  see,"  she  declared,  gauging 
my  heavy  figure.  "I  had  bad  luck,  I  had  no  milk. 
No  use  giving  him  gravy  or  bread  soaked  and 
boiled.  He  doesn't  get  any  good  out  of  them.  If 
you  think  you  can  fatten  them  on  the  doctor's  fine? 
words,  as  if  the  doctors  even  know  what  they're 
talking  about!" 

"I  believe  you!"  bawled  a  big  blonde.  The 
babj^  which  she  had  a  triumphant  way  of  carrying 
had  hanging  cheeks  and  bottle-blue  eyes  in  button- 
hole slits.  "Just  look  at  mine.  At  nine  months 
it  ate  like  us.    What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh?" 

A  group  gathered.  "What  are  you  here  for 
then?"  asked  a  huge  creature  with  a  gray  ogress 
head,  high  cheekbones  and  skin  streaked  with  fine 
veins.  The  blonde  turned  her  baby  over  and 
showed  its  chubby  flesh  covered  with  a  crusty, 
scabby,  red-streaked  sheath.    "Oh,  only  this." 

The  ogress  dropped  into  an  empty  place  on  the 
bench  and  paraded  her  darling  on  her  knees.  "My 


108  WOMAN 

daughter's,"  she  explained  to  the  circle  around 
her.  ' '  Her  third.  Maybe  you  think  she  hasn  't  got 
something  to  worry  about — three  babies  and  work- 
ing in  a  factory.  Babies — I  know  a  thing  or  two 
about  babies.  I've  had  eleven."  There  was  a 
general  stir  of  compassion  followed  by  protests. 
*'I  have  two  left."  She  danced  the  mite  on  her 
knee.  Her  tower  of  a  body  swayed  back  and  forth, 
through  her  half-open  jacket  you  could  divine  her 
dead  breasts.  There  was  something  weird  and 
horrible  in  the  dismal  accustomedness  of  her 
knees. 

''The  doctors  make  you  fuss  such  a  lot.  You 
give  the  babies  too  much,  and  you  don't  give  'em 
enough,  and  you  don't  bathe  'em,  and  you  don't 
weigh  'em.  There  wasn't  such  a  lot  of  talk  in 
my  time,  but  they  grew  up  all  the  same.  I  said 
to  my  daughter,  'Look  here,  you  let  me  alone, 
either  I  know  what  to  do  or  I  don't  know  what  to 
do.'  I  used  to  give  mine  toast- water,  that  was 
all. ' '  She  tucked  up  the  lank  pads  of  hair  clinging 
to  either  side  of  her  face.  "You  boil  two  or  three 
crusts  of  bread  .    .    . " 

' '  Oh,  I  know, ' '  interrupted  the  woman  with  the 
drowned-corpse  face. 

"Mine  has  bronchitis,"  went  on  the  ogress.  "I 
wonder  where  he  caught  it.  He  never  goes  out 
and  he  sleeps  close  to  the  stove.  I  am  going  to 
try  and  see  if  I  can't  get  a  bottle  of  syrup   .    .    ." 

The  folding-doors  opened,  a  white-clad  nurse 
made  a  sign,  and  all  rose,  each  with  the  same 
enamored  hugging-to-her  of  her  wailing  burden. 


BEING  109 

The  crowd  poured  into  an  immense,  well-heated 
room  paved  with  white  flag-stones  and  painted 
white.  The  light  beat  down  hard  through  a  row 
of  bay-windows.  At  the  far  end  presided  a  hand- 
some old  man  in  a  white  smock,  an  immaculate 
nurse  at  his  side.  ''The  doctor!"  whispered  the 
women  in  a  tone  of  awed  hostility.  The  man  did 
indeed  seem  indifferent  and  just  as  God  should  be. 

Spread  out  symmetrically  on  the  bare  table  in 
front  of  him  among  other  instruments  was  a  com- 
plete apparatus  of  justice,  bright  and  glittering — 
a  set  of  scales  with  a  basket  and  a  row  of  copper 
weights  drawing  clamorous  notes  from  the  strag- 
gling music  of  the  sunshine. 

With  remarkable  dexterity  the  women  undid  the 
swaddling-clothes,  turning,  tucking  up,  unwrap- 
ping. The  blonde  swelled  out  her  bosom  as  she 
stuck  it  full  of  pins ;  the  ogress  held  her  pins  be- 
tween her  teeth.  A  suffocating  odor  of  warm  wool, 
sour  milk,  perspiration,  and  stale  flesh  arose  amid 
the  cries. 

The  line  began  to  move.  One  after  the  other 
they  went  up  tendering  their  children  like  poor 
plucked  bruised  flowers,  with  the  idolatrous, 
skulking  faith  of  believers  approaching  God. 

From  my  bench^  my  heart  frightfully  wrung,  I 
saw  each  showing  me  what  I  might  make  of  my 
child  ...  a  baby  with  its  neck  seamed  with  a 
reddish  crack  ...  a  baby  with  tiny,  tiny  limbs 
beneath  an  abdomen  swelling  like  a  bagpipe  .  .  . 
a  baby  whose  ribs  striped  its  body  like  a  zebra's 
hide  ...  a  baby  with  a  back  all  covered  with 
boils  .    ,    , 


110  WOMAN 

"He  has  green  movements."  ''He  has  a  swol- 
len stomach."  ''He  has  ringworm."  "He 
coughs. ' '  And  the  same  slack  answers  to  the  doc- 
tor's  questions:  "I  don't  know. — I  don't  know. — 
I  don't  know." 

The  man  cast  his  sovereign  glance  over  the 
printed  form  held  out  to  him,  handled  the  little 
body,  remained  impassive  while  pronouncing  his 
rapid  decision,  and  took  up  the'  next  case. 

Among  the  lethargic  flock  who  went  away  with 
bowed  heads,  some,  to  rally  their  spirits,  mumbled 
the  flesh  of  their  babies  with  fierce  kisses  as  if  to 
take  revenge  and  show  that  this  man  after  all 
had  done  them  harm  .    .   . 


I  got  up,  dragging  my  double  weight. 

So  this  is  the  maternal  infatuation  which  is  so 
sanctified  and  revered.  "I  don't  know. — I  don't 
know. — I  don't  know."  And  I  presumptuously 
was  going  to'  commit  the  same  folly,  I,  who  knew 
no  better  than  they,  who  had  not  learned  the  un- 
known love  awaiting  me   .    .    . 

Why  doesn't  that  man,  the  doctor,  who  knows, 
arise  and  snatch  away  these  lives  contaminated  by 
the  fond  ignorance  of  the  mothers,  and  proclaim 
that  the  instinct  is  fallible,  fatal,  even  criminal? 


Most  of  the  women  met  me  again  under  the 
porte-cochere,  because  I  walked  with  difficulty. 
The  one  with  the  drowned-corpse  face  gave  me  a 
friendly  little  nod. 


BEING  111 

''You  will  see,"  her  nod  said,  '4t  will  soon  be 
your  turn   .    .    . " 

Yes,  I  know  .  .  .  To  be  a  mother  ...  In 
return  for  the  gift  of  life,  to  have  the  right  of 
death  over  one's  child.    And  to  use  that  right. 


XIII 

A  rending,  moments  repeated  incessantly,  tor- 
ture indescribable,  pain  embedded  in  the  body,  bat- 
tle, cruel  cries  .    .    . 

I  remember  everj'^thing  and  every  second.  I  re- 
member the  seconds  when  I  gnawed  at  my  bed- 
clothes, w^hen  I  howled  like  a  wild  beast.  I  remem- 
ber all  of  them  and  others.  I  remember  that  none 
of  them  was  ever  the  last,  how  the  hours  added 
themselves  to  the  seconds  in  an  excruciating,  in- 
human succession  of  throes  in  which  my  whole  be- 
ing set  furiously  upon  itself,  how  I  no  longer  had 
the  strength  to  suffer. 

I  twisted  my  head  from  side  to  side  like  a  dying 
animal  in  entreaty;  I  stifled  it  in  the  pillows;  it 
was  wet  with  perspiration ;  I  felt  a  new  convulsion 
begin  and  break  like  a  wave.  And  when  an  infer- 
nal force  tore  me  with  a  pang  greater  than  all 
the  others,  I  heard  vaguely  a  cry  that  was  no 
longer  mine,  a  film  passed  over  my  pupils,  I  sank 
into  an  abyss  sunlit  and  sultry.  It  was  over  .  .  . 
it  was  over  ...  I  fell  asleep, 

Did  I  remain  in  that  state  of  lethargy  and  iner- 


112  WOMAN 

tia  for  long?  When  I  opened  my  eyes  the  white- 
ness and  blankness  of  the  walls  of  my  room  seemed 
to  be  released  by  a  spring.  About  me  was  a  start- 
ling silence  peopled  with  sibilant  whispers.  I  saw 
women  stooping,  then  disappearing  with  their 
arms  full  of  linen. 

My  baby !    My  baby ! 

His  father,  exultant,  held  him  out  to  me.  I  be- 
came fully  conscious.  But  goodness,  how  ugly  he 
was!  The  shrivelled  face  of  an  old  woman,  the 
profile  of  a  vulture,  a  forehead  covered  with 
plushy  mucosities,  cheeks  smeared  as  with  the 
yolk  of  an  egg,  hands  on  the  outside  exactly  like  a 
bird's  and  on  the  inside  creased  and  red.  And 
real  nails! 

At  the  fontanelle  the  pulse  beneath  the  skin 
throbbed  terrif yingly,  and  the  fuzz  on  his  skull  was 
skimpier  than  pin-feathers  on  a  fledgling. 

I  took  him  in  my  arms,  stiff  and  long  in  his 
swaddling-clothes.  His  eyes  opened  half  way  and 
showed  a  glassy  violet  with  milky  gleams. 

Our  child?  We  both  in  turn  dropped  timid  sol- 
emn kisses  on  his  downy  cheeks  made  of  a  sweet 
smell,  and  I  dared  not  say  anything. 

Well?  .  .  .  The  call  of  the  blood,  the  rejoicing 
of  the  flesh,  the  issue  of  love,  the  instinct,  the  lurid 
mother-instinct  at  last? 

No! 


BEINa  113 


XIV 


I  should  like  to  hold  these  things  fast,  for  al- 
ways. 

I  see  them  now  as  they  really  are,  just  as  I  see 
my  son  in  his  present  form.  But  it  is  not  enough 
to  say:  "I  see  them."  I  have  carefully  preserved 
all  my  pictures  of  him ;  I  want  to  keep  intact  the 
memory  of  the  heart  he  gave  me. 

This  is  not  difficult  to  tell.  Other  feelings  are 
too  bound  up  with  self  for  description.  You'd 
have  to  explain  a  person's  whole  nature  to  under- 
stand them.  Love  is  indefinable,  grief  is  indefin- 
able, but  a  mother's  heart  can  open  up  like  a  book. 
It  is  uniform  and  simple,  free  from  all  alloy,  and 
its  very  infiniteness  is  like  finiteness. 

My  little  boy  is  near  me,  awkwardly  assaying 
his  first  steps  in  the  garden.  Without  raising 
my  eyes  from  my  work  I  watch  him  and  I  thank 
him. 

It  is  he.  Although  he  changes  from  day  to  day, 
I  know  his  ways  by  heart :  the  big  curl  in  which  the 
sunlight  lies  coiled,  the  almost  imperceptible  arch 
of  his  eyebrows,  mere  shades  of  lines,  the  red  pol- 
len blown  on  the  petals  of  his  cheeks,  his  profile 
of  curves,  his  neck  of  mother-of-pearl,  the  spread- 
ing fan  of  his  fingers,  his  unique  form  which  is 
unique  only  to  me. 

I  must  rack  my  brain  in  order  to  force  into  my 
memory  that  once  he  lay  hidden  in  my  warm  womb 
and  I  carried  him  as  though  he  were  one  of  my 


114  WOMAN 

organs,  as  though  he  were  a  secret,  that  I  carried 
him  as  one  carries  a  joy  or  a  pain.  I  no  longer 
remember  this. 

I  am  in  a  hnrry  for  him  to  grow  up  and  be  able 
to  listen;  I  should  like  to  talk  to  him.  I  have 
found  words  for  the  others,  though  they  awoke 
in  me  only  an  uncertain  love  and  set  my  heart  in 
chaos.  He  has  given  me  an  intelligible  emotion, 
and  to  him  I  have  said  nothing. 

I  love  him  as  I  love  no  one,  because  he  is  the 
sole  human  being  for  whom  I  am  responsible.  My 
love  is  responsibility  first  and  foremost.  If  he 
bends  over,  I  suppress  a  cry;  if  the  sun  shines  too 
strong  on  him,  I  shield  him  with  my  body;  if  he 
makes  a  new  gesture,  a  slight  disquiet  flits  through 
me.  In  whatever  concerns  him  danger  seems  to 
lurk.  He  is  a  lively,  approachable  child,  people 
like  him,  and  when  they  come  up  and  speak  to  him, 
I  smile  a  pleasant,  natural  smile,  though  his  life 
and  his  death  keep  up  an  incessant  sport  within 
me  and  incessantly  it  devolves  upon  me  to  secure 
his  life.  It  is  a  tragic  stake,  a  terribly  cruel  prob- 
lem ;  it  is  the  entire  basis  of  mother-love. 

He  has  run  as  far  as  the  ivy  thicket,  thirty 
yards  from  my  chair.  I  tremble  so  that  I  have  to 
get  up  and  leave  my  work.  Every  now  and  then 
he  comes  tottering  to  present  me  with  a  shaving 
of  wood  fished  up  from  the  sand  he  plays  in,  a 
big  earth-coated  pebble,  treasure-troves  of  all 
sorts.    "Look,  mother."  His  attention  flatters  me. 

If  I  were  to  disappear  without  leaving  any- 


BEING  115 

thing?  .  .  .  Without  leaving  a  will?  Or  sup- 
pose that  from  beyond  the  tomb  I  were  to  say; 
'' Before  you  took  your  first  steps  your  life  was 
all  arranged.  In  order  that  you  should  be  happy 
I  kept  you  from  having  dignity  or  a  sense  of  jus- 
tice. No  need  for  you  to  undergo  the  bitter  strug- 
gle that  presses  upon  a  man,  the  primordial  cares 
of  existence,  honesty — honor,  in  short.  Are  you 
not  my  child?  If  I  have  taken  trouble  and  pains 
it  was  to  deprive  human  beings  all  for  your  sake. 
You  will  be  exempted  from  earning  your  bread 
and  pursuing  an  occupation.  You  will  depend 
upon  the  labor  of  others,  you  will  be  under  the 
delusion  that  you  are  distinguished  from  those 
upon  whom  you  depend.  That  is  the  end  to  which 
my  efforts  will  have  served."  But  this  is  wrong, 
unwholesome,  dishonorable. 

When  he  is  grown  up  into  a  tall  young  man 
whom  people  take  notice  of,  shall  I  have  the  cour- 
age to  look  him  in  the  face  and  say: 

''You  are  not  everything  to  me :  you  never  have 
been  my  whole  passion.  I  have  cherished  you'  on 
my  knees,  I  have  served  you,  I  have  idolized  you. 
I  have  never  deceived  myself.  I  knew  perfectly 
that  in  loving  a  child  one  gives  without  ever  re- 
ceiving. I  have  reserved  the  highest  place  for 
others.  It  is  not  to  you  that  I  have  dedicated  the 
essential  thing  in  my  life,  its  supreme  reason,  if  a 
supreme  reason  can  be  found. 

**  Therefore  you  have  the  right  to  leave  me.  You 
must  be  finer,  you  must  repudiate  me.    I  bow  be- 


116  WOMAN 

fore  what  yon  are.  I  free  you  from  the  duty 
in  which  children  are  cooped  up,  and  I  assume  the 
duty  myself.  AVhatever  I  may  have  done,  never 
let  my  course  of  life  be  an  example  to  you ;  there 
is  no  example ;  you,  nothing  but  you,  is  what  will 
count. 

''You  will  have  so  much  to  do,  everything  I  have 
failed  to  do.  Go,  keep  your  face  set  forward, 
never  turn  back.  What  were  you  born  for  if  not 
to  depart  from  me?  To  be  sure,  you  are  flesh  of 
my  flesh,  but  a  part  of  my  flesh  that  is  unlike  me, 
a  contrary  current  that  has  emanated  from  me. 
.    .    .  You  say  no  to  everything  I  am. 

"Does  it  hurt  me  to  see  you  disappear?  Am 
I  alarmed?  Do  I  suffer?  That  does  not  concern 
you.  I  ivas  forewarned.  On  the  day  you  were 
born  I  was  told  that  the  tearing-away  process 
would  last  as  long  as  I  last.  We  leave  each  other 
each  minute.  Your  head  mounts  upward  towards 
the  heavens,  mine*  draws  closer  to  the  earth. 

"It  is  right  and  proper  that  this  should  be  so. 
Without  you,  you  know,  my  existence  would  be 
justified.  It  was  not  merely  to  bring  you  into  the 
world  that  I  was  born.  The  thing  is  that  your 
existence  should  be  justified  .  .  .  No,  do  not  de- 
lay. Life  is  nothing  but  a  departure  and  every 
time  one  halts  one  commits  treason. 

"I  shall  have  to  come  to  understand  many 
things,  thanks  to  you.  I  have  always  tried  to  be 
clear  and  know  myself,  but  when  I  went  to  the 
bottom  of  things,  I  mean  to  the  bottom  of  myself, 
there  always  remained  another  soul,  a  rebellious 


BEING  117 

soul  which  refused  to  reveal  its  mystery,  and  I 
have  doubted  whether  it  is  humanly  possible  to 
learn  the  truth  of  it. 

"I  was  not  mistaken.  The  real,  un'^nown  part 
of  myself,  my  unreachable  soul,  is  in  your  eyes. 
You  will  see  through  wiiat  I  have  got  no  knowl- 
edge of.  If  you  beheld  how  I  look  at  you !  You 
are  like  the  travellers  who  come  from  afar,  from 
the  lands  of  fable  concealed  under  lovely  names 
of  gold.  You  resemble  those  travellers.  Your 
eyes  will  see  beyond  the  horizon  in  which  I  go 
astray.  I  tell  you  that  of  the  two  of  us  the  one 
who  ought  to  kneel,  listen,  and  learn  is  not  you. 

' '  My  little  baby,  I  shall  owe  to  you  the  sole  love 
that  is  sorrowful  and  perfect,  the  love  that  neither 
barters  nor  expects  reward.  Since  I  have  given 
everything,  you  will  owe  me  nothing." 

Shall  I  have  the  courage  to  say  this  to  him?  It 
will  be  hard  perhaps,  but  already  I  find  that  it  is 
a  veritable  grace  from  heaven  to  have  twenty 
years  in  which  to  attain  to  such  courage. 

Here  he  is  coming  back,  running  this  time  and 
brandishing  in  his  plump  hand  a  twig  he  has  brok- 
en off  all  by  himself.  He  drops  plump  on  his 
knees  as  on  two  round  balls,  all  hampered  in  his 
clumsy  race  to  me.  His  chubby  cheeks  are  stained 
with  crimson.  He  throws  himself  on  me.  "Moth- 
er," he  lisps,  the  little  flatterer.  .    .    . 

The  mournful  moment  of  a  kiss,  the  exasperat- 


118  WOMAN 


ing  moment  of  an  abortive  embrace,  the  fleeting 
moment  of  contact — he  is  gone. 


XV 


The  test  has  been  made. 

We  have  lived  side  by  side  in  the  heart  of  the 
country,  we  have  done  the  humble  things  of  daily 
life  together,  have  shared  its  immediate  exigen- 
cies, have  enjoyed  the  wild  spirit  of  long  walks  to- 
gether, the  redolent  silence  of  the  little  wood,  all 
the  freedom  written  on  the  face  of  the  earth  and 
carried  by  the  waters.  After  this  we  shall  feel 
that  the  looks  we  exchange  are  sisterly,  and  I 
have  the  improbable  hope  of  some  day  being  able 
to  say:  "I  have  found  a  woman  friend." 

Her  very  name  seems  wonderful.    Eva  .    .    . 

I  met  her  in  the  office  where  I  work.  What  a 
lovely  vision  the  first  day!  You  so  rarely  find 
strength  blended  with  sweetness  in  a  woman 
that  her  bearing  seemed  a  little  supernatural. 
It  was  merely  self-assurance,  however,  and  the 
majesty  of  perfect  health  that  gave  her  her  superb 
manner  of  treading  the  waves.  You  noticed  her 
tallness  and  fearless  vitality,  and  did  not  try  to 
question  her  eyes  for  the  secret  being  in  her.  This 
was  fully  expressed  by  her  quick  gestures,  the 
smile  of  her  frank  lips,  the  fearless  carriage  of  her 
head,  the  straightforward  look  of  her  beautiful 
brown  eyes. 


BEING  119 

A  sort  of  reserve  established  a  connection  be- 
tween ns  at  first. 

I  noticed  her  diligence,  her  desire  to  do  well, 
and  a  something  like  heroism,  which  made  her 
rush  into  the  forefront  of  life  and  carry  away  a 
little  more  than  her  share  of  the  burden. 

Our  silent  understanding  lasted  for  some  time. 
Perhaps  without  our  knowledge  the  intuition, 
brooding  in  women  brought  us  closer  than  words 
could  have  done.  One  evening  in  speaking  of  her 
home  and  saying  how  happily  she  looked  forward 
to  meeting  her  husband,  she  used  a  phrase  so 
tender,  warm  and  chaste  that  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  woman  in  her.  Her  face,  alwavs  behind 
a  mask  of  energy,  turned  gentle  and  serious  as 
if  veiled  by  serenity.  I  imagined  a  couple  in  her 
image,  for  it  is  the  woman  who  makes  or  unmakes 
the  couple.  She  must  have  achieved  a  deep  mar- 
riage. .  .  .  The  weather  was  fine  and  bright, 
and  we  left  for  home  together. 

I  think  I  shall  always  remember  her  pure  voice, 
which  revealed  the  restlessness  of  living  like  a 
burning  bush  hidden  behind  strength  and  youth. 
.  .  .  I  kept  wishing  we'd  never  reach  the  comer 
where  wo  had  to  separate. 

But  there  it  was  already.  The  red  of  the  sky 
threw  its  glow  on  her  face  and  spread  an  impalpa- 
ble halo  of  dusty  rays  behind  her.  ''Till  to-mor- 
row," she  said.  I  almost  ran  off,  my  heart  swell- 
ing with  gratitude.    I  remember  my  eyes  smarted. 

That  was  several  months  ago.  Wlien  we  de- 
cided to  spend  our  vacation  together,  I  felt  be- 
forehand that  we  were  going  to  be  friends. 


120  WOMAN 

We  made  the  rash  experiment  of  bringing  two 
couples,  two  poor  couples,  under  the  same  poor 
roof.  We  did  it  and  we  were  gay  and  happy  in 
the  doing.    It  makes  you  believe  in  miracles. 

I  do  believe  in  miracles.  It  is  not  a  miracle  that 
this  beautiful  woman  with  the  tanned  cheeks  walk- 
ing beside  me  is  the  strongest  attraction  in  the 
landscape  because  of  the  tall  stem  of  her  body, 
the  dancing  refrain  of  her  steps,  and  the  bril- 
liance of  her  complexion.  Other  women  have 
passed  over  the  ageless  earth  who  were  as  alive, 
as  charming,  as  stirring.  The  miracle  is  that  her 
brow  is  clear,  her  manner  clean-cut,  her  gaze 
straight  and  sure  and  keen  with  intelligence ;  that 
she  goes  lovingly  toward  a  love  which  she  has 
built  with  her  own  hands;  that  she  is  free  and 
strives  to  be  sincere  in  her  freedom.  Our  mothers 
knew  not.  The  woman  in  us  owes  them  noth- 
ing but  our  faults. 

If  you  look  at  this  woman  carrying  her  will  on 
her  shoulders,  leading  her  will  on  towards  the 
realization  of  her  inner  idea,  towards  the  simple 
desire  to  be  brave,  to  love,  to  be  truthful ;  if  you 
see  her  passing  in  nature,  if  you  see  how  she 
moves,  how  she  takes  into  her  being  the  keen  sea- 
air  and  how  aware  she  is  of  everything,  the  great 
eucalyptus,  its  gray-green  leaves  tossing  in  the 
wind,  the  ochre-colored  slope  checkered  with  vines, 
the  sleepy  languor  of  the  lovely  coast-line  robed 
in  blue,  you  can  tell  at  a  glance  that  our  humanity 
is  strangely  new. 

When  she  returns  to  her  and  her  husband's  or- 


BEING  121 

derly,  flower-decked  room,  what  a  life  she  will  stir 
up;  what  creative  power,  what  inspiration,  what 
harmonv  she  will  contribute  to  their  relation. 

"Will  she  and  I  succeed  in  producing  that 
supreme  masterpiece  known  as  friendship? 
Friendship  between  two  women  used  to  seem  al- 
most impossible  to  me.  I  have  always  seen  women 
leagued  against  man.  They  meet  only  to  connive, 
and  when  they  meet,  humanity  divides  into  two 
camjDS  with  the  woman's  camp  almost  wholly  de- 
voted to  the  concoction  of  plots  and  lies.  Two 
women  together?  Two  enemies  confronting  each 
other.  If  they  cease  from  their  rivalry,  it  is  in 
order  to  set  traps  for  male  weakness. 

She  turns  round.  ' '  Quick,  we  ought  to  be  back 
already."  Her  smile  is  so  confiding  and  my  heart 
so  happy,  she  is  so  radiant,  so  wholesome  and 
her  presence  is  so  forceful  that  some  day,  I  say 
to  myself,  the  name  of  friendship  will  have  to  be 
the  same  as  of  love. 


XVI 

An  arbor  at  the  water's  edge.  Cool  green 
leaves.  Flowers.  Boughs  striped  with  sunshine. 
Close  by,  the  peacefulness  of  a  sleepy  stream. 

We  had  decided  to  celebrate  our  second  wedding 
anniversary  here.  We  rose  early  in  the  morning, 
set  out  arm  in  arm,  keeping  step,  and  came  to  this 


122  W03IAN 

springtime  nook  as  if  to  a  rendezvous  arranged 
by  spring  itself. 

The  setting  for  our  lunch  was  all  it  should  be — 
the  midday  sun  blazing  dowTi  upon  the  surround- 
ing country,  the  table  garlanded  with  flowers,  the 
scenery  framed  in  the  arch  of  the  arbor. 

Two  years   .    .    . 

The  afternoon  passed  tranquilly. 

He  was  seated  close  beside  me.  I  saw  his  profile 
against  the  bank  and  the  misty  line  where  the  hori- 
zon was  falling  asleep.  His  wandering  gaze  was 
caught  by  everything  and  rested  on  nothing.  He 
seemed  to  be  summing  up  each  breath  of  nature, 
each  line,  each  feature,  and  he  had  eyes  only — 
this  being  a  day  apart  from  other  days — for  the 
broad  effects  of  the  great  stretch  of  landscape. 

A  halt.  We  count  on  our  fingers,  we  hold  a 
mental  roll-call  before  turning  back  .  .  .  Pres- 
ently, when  we  start  on  our  homeward  walk,  the 
great  amphitheatre  of  vapors,  the  slope  fringed 
with  trees,  the  belt  of  mist  will  each  one  by  one 
be  making  their  quivering  signs. 

Two  years.  What  has  my  love  become,  my  hope, 
the  spirit  without  end  which  dwelt  within  me? 
.    .    .  We  are  two,  that  is  all. 

The  same  current  of  the  spirit — if  not  the  same 
spirit — drives  its  waves  through  us.  The  same 
flame — if  not  the  same  heart — mounts  within  us. 
The  same  love  of  truth — if  not  the  same  truth — ■ 
throws  the  light  of  day  between  us.  And  nothing 
but  silence  is  needed  for  us  to  be  close  and  united. 


BEING  123 

We  love  each  other  better  than  ever;  we  no 
longer  talk  to  each  other. 

Had  anyone  said  to  me  the  first  day  of  our  mar- 
riage: "You  will  want  to  explain  everything  to 
him,  what  you  are,  w^hat  you  see,  what  you  wish ; 
you  will  want  to  find  out  from  him  what  he  is, 
what  he  sees,  what  he  wishes ;  you  will  also  want 
to  find  out  what  in  both  of  you  is  reconcilable  and 
jDerhaps,  above  all,  what  is  irreconcilable:  this 
is  his  concern  or  interest,  this  is  your  concern 
or  interest,  I  should  have  nodded  my  head.  ' '  Yes, 
exactly. ' ' 

But  if  I  had  also  been  told:  '^A  day  will  come 
when  you  will  have  nothing  more  to  learn  of  each 
other,  nothing  more  to  tell  each  other;  without 
mutual  explanations  you  will  understand  every- 
thing," I  should  have  denied  the  possibility.  I 
should  have  cried  out  that  a  whole  century 
wouldn't  be  enough  to  bring  two  human  be- 
ings into  harmony,  because  human  beings  change 
from  second  to  second.  I  should  have  said  it  was 
blasphemy. 

But  the  day  did  come. 

There  is  a  region  of  soft  azure  outlines  where 
words  have  been  extinguished.  He  exists  and  I 
exist. 

It  is  a  little  green  arbor  Avhere  nothing,  in  short, 
binds  us  together,  neither  the  flaming  leafage, 
nor  the  smell  of  invisible  murmuring  water,  nor 
the  languishing  hour;  neither  the  nights  past  and 
gone,  nor  the  days  to  come,  nor  the  little  child 
asleep  at  home  in  his  cradle.    If  anything  binds 


124  WOMAN 

us  together,  it  is  the  freedom  that  each  of  us  has 
found,  nothing  else. 

One  must  never  say  ''This  is  love,"  for  love  is 
the  heaven  that  the  heart  has  in  prospect,  and 
the  whole  of  space  is  yet  to  be  traversed.  ...  It 
is  an  immense  feeling  which  speaks  and  impels 
you  and  is  made  up  of  certainty  and  clearness. 

I  am  sure  of  him. 

He  might  see  a  weapon  of  crime  in  my  hands — 
or  at  least  some  symbolic  weapon,  something  he 
holds  a  crime — without  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
Remembering  that  my  tenderness  is  unfailing,  he 
would  say  to  me  ' '  all  right, ' '  then  he  would  come 
to  me  to  find  out  why  what  I  was  doing  was  right. 

And  he  is  sure  of  me.  He  could  leave  us,  his 
hearth,  his  love,  his  child,  without  so  much  as  a 
glance  back.  I  should  merely  say:  "He  had  to 
go,  he  must  submit  to  our  love,  and  go  his  own 
way.    That  is  how  we  love  each  other. ' ' 

A  moment  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  a  great  moment, 
so  welcoming,  so  stable,  and  so  peaceful  that  it  is 
like  an  open  doorway  before  which  you  must  com- 
mune with  yourself  before  entering.  Two  years 
gone  by.    Before  me  the  rest  of  my  life. 

I  have  also  had  my  doubts  and  fears.  In  the  be- 
ginning I  said  to  myself:  "Will  life  allow  such  a 
love?  What  will  become  of  this  ardor  and  deter- 
mination'? And  he,  will  he  allow  me  to  love  him 
as  my  heart  dictates  ? ' ' 

We  have  gone  through  daily  cares  together, 


BEING  125 

poverty,  weariness,  all  the  formidable  common 
things.  We  got  many  laughs  and  more  strength 
out  of  them.  In  the  evening  his  step  would  sound 
on  the  dark  landing;  I  would  run  to  the  door  to 
meet  his  smile ;  he  would  kiss  me ;  the  hours  would 
fly.  .  .  .  That  is  the  w^ay  two  years  unrolled 
their  seasons  and  brought  forth  their  fruits,  and 
we  became  strict  with  each  other  because  perfec- 
tion revealed  her  face  to  us  from  afar. 

So,  without  a  word  said,  by  minutes  added  to 
minutes,  by  the  divine  simplicity  to  which  one  ap- 
proaches, you  reach  the  promised  land  and  the 
very  heart  of  love. 

I  sav  what  I  see.  Life  does  allow  all  the  ardor, 
all  the  sublimity  of  two  human  beings  to  flourish ; 
and  in  their  relation  to  each  other  she  grants 
even  the  impossible.    I  say  what  he  and  I  are. 

With  one  accord  we  rise,  we  know  it  is  time. 
Our  child  is  waiting  for  us,  our  house,  our  to-mor- 
rows, a  thousand  impatient  desires,  and  all  the 
things  you  don't  think  of  in  advance. 

We  follow  the  line  of  the  bank.  ^Vhere  to?  I 
do  not  know,  but  I  know  it  is  sweet,  very  sweet, 
and  his  arm  is  linked  in  mine. 

Ahead  of  us  are  two  banks  set  with  houses  and 
edged  with  reeds  sharp-edged  and  long  as  swords. 

It  gives  you  a  sort  of  dizziness  to  follow  the 
banks  straight  ahead  without  removing  your  eyes. 
These  two  lines,  separated  forever  and  mingled 
forever  by  the  current,  are  fascinating. 

A  marvel.    Is  it  not  a  marvel?    An  arch.    Eis- 


126  WOMAN 

ing  from  the  ground  on  either  side,  its  loving, 
solid  curve  clasps  both  banks  and  brings  them 
together  in  an  embrace.  Nevertheless  they  are 
like  two  convicts.  Yet  at  one  point  they  become 
a  single  bank ;  they  touch,  they  merge.  Then  they 
go  on,  their  bed  widening  out.  In  spite  of  appear- 
ances they  are  still  closely  united  in  order  to  sus- 
tain the  deepening  river  which  will  place  its  mouth 
on  the  mouth  of  the  ocean. 

Yes   .    .    .   one  more  look  .    .    . 

Above  the  slope  leaning  do^vn  to  lull  itself  in 
bliss,  the  sky  has  just  enshrined  a  light  cloud  the 
color  of  periwinkles,  and  the  arch  resounds  like 
an  Hallelujah  in  stone. 

Come. 

XVII 

He  entered. 

I  cannot  say  how  I  reacted  to  the  first  steps  he 
took  into  my  life.  I  have  only  a  confused  impres- 
sion left.  The  man  who  entered  was  not  one  to 
whom  I  could  be  indifferent.  He  was  an  aspect 
of  my  own  being  which  was  taking  form  and  mov- 
ing outside  myself  without  recognizing  me. 

He  approached  shyly  enough.  My  heart  rose 
...  he  approached  ...  I  felt  vaguely  that  a 
large  event  involving  me  was  taking  place  in  far- 
ot¥  regions,  and  the  shadow  of  his  body  spread  an 
immense  new  something  before  my  eyes. 

I  thought  him  very  gentle.    I  noticed  the  metal- 


BEING  127 

lie  clearness  of  liis  restless  gaze,  and  that  his  fig- 
ure suggested  a  great  tree  which  dominates  the 
other  trees  and  lowers  its  branches  so  as  not  to 
be  alone. 

THiat  was  he  going  to  do  among  these  people, 
what  attitude  would  he,  the  single  sane  person  in 
the  entire  gathering,  assume  ?  How  was  he  going 
to  behave  in  this  brilliant  drawing-room  filled  mtli 
twittering  women,  dazzling  lights,  bare  shoulders, 
ripples  of  laughter,  and  heavy  perfumes? 

I  had  tried  hard  to  cut  a  figure  but  soon  had 
to  confess  myself  beaten.  The  women  spoke  a 
language  not  like  the  rest  of  the  world's.  Their 
vocabulary  was  limited  to  ''masterpiece,"  ''in- 
famous," "divine,"  "diabolical,"  "delicious," 
"intriguing."  In  their  presence  an  average, 
disgracefully  normal,  tame  creature  like  myself 
w^ithout  vices  or  virtues,  had  to  keep  mum. 

The  old  gentleman  advancing  screened  my  es- 
cape from  the  group  in  which  I  had  been  trapped, 
and  I  managed  to  retreat  to  a  safe  corner,  from 
which  I  saw  the  women  fasten  on  him  with  a  buzz 
of  talk,  a  whole  gamut  of  rosy  bosoms  and  a  great 
display  of  fireworks.  .  .  .  Further  off  the  host- 
ess was  keeping  a  watchful  eye  to  see  that  no  one 
of  the  women  distinguished  herself  too  much. 
The  elderly  laughing  gentleman  must  have  been 
some  one  of  importance   .    .    . 

The  tobacco-laden  air  was  gradually  getting  to 
be  unbrcathable.  The  noise  pounded  incessantly. 
I  sat  riveted  to  my  chair  without  daring  to  move, 
as  though  a  nightmare  were  upon  me,  the  sort  in 


128  WOMAN 

which  a  terrible  load  oppresses  your  chest,  though 
you  remain  conscious.  ' '  I  am  dying,  I  am  dying. ' ' 
The  load  weighs  more  heavily.  ''No,  I  am  dream- 
ing, I  am  going  to  wake  myself  up."  But  you  are 
impotent;  you  can't  shake  the  load  off  and  you 
can't  come  out  of  the  nightmare. 

It  was  just  as  I  was  exerting  every  muscle  and 
scrap  of  courage  to  escape  from  the  oppressive 
spectacle — I  had  devised  a  polite  pretext — when 
he  entered. 

The  hostess  went  to  meet  him  with  her  wide 
smile,  her  hand  uplifted,  and  the  phrase  of  greet- 
ing she  had  repeated  at  least  twenty  times  since 
I  had  been  in  the  room. 

She  steered  him  my  way,  threw  out  a  rising  syl- 
lable, a  descending  syllable,  like  two  balls  between 
our  two  faces,  and  then  propelled  him  over  to  the 
group  while  I  listened  to  the  muffled  echo  of  his 
name  bury  itself  in  my  heart, 

I  forgot  the  smoke,  the  noise,  my  eagerness 
to  leave.  Even  the  weight  lifted  from  my 
chest  in  the  very  way  a  nightmare  suddenly 
takes  wing  and  yields  to  a  dream  of  clear,  bright 
meanderings. 

They  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  him.  The 
loud  dame  who  presided  over  the  group  captured 
all  eyes.  She  was  plump  and  short ;  as  she  talked 
she  flapped  her  arms  like  fins,  and  every  now  and 
then  let  out  from  her  chest  as  from  a  great  case 
a  vibrant  laugh,  which  sent  undulations  over  her 
salmon-colored  bosom.     When  she  herself  had 


BEING  129 

done  laughing,  she  would  cast  her  eyes  about  in 
quest  of  approval  as  though  levying  tribute  from 
the  faces.  But  when  she  encountered  the  new- 
comer, she  had  to  stop  because  his  frank  gaze  pro- 
nounced disapproval  and  denial. 

How  I  wanted  to  thank  him ! 

The  company  had  been  too  much  for  me ;  it  be- 
came too  much  for  him.  Soon  I  saw  him  cast 
about  for  a  retreat.  .  .  .  For  a  second  his  eyes 
glided  over  me,  I  alarmed  him  as  he  had  alarmed 
me.  Then  he  slunk  away,  with  the  same  crushed, 
crestfallen  manner  that  I  must  have  had. 

He  walked  off  .  .  .  the  curtain  of  palms  .  .  . 
he  disappeared. 

By  fits  and  starts  the  nightmare  returned, 
clutching  me  with  clammy  tentacles.  The  noise 
fell  in  slabs,  the  weight  on  my  chest  suffocated 
me.  Through  a  mist  phantoms  glided  by,  exchange 
ing  absurd  bows,  disjointed  gestures,  and  discon^ 
nected  remarks.  A  woman  in  a  spangled  gown 
with  hair  like  flaxen  wood-shavings  turned  and 
showed  a  chalky  face.  Others  followed  her, 
branded  with  painted  red  smiles.  They  were  all 
hurrying.  Refreshments  were  being  served  under 
the  rotunda.  The  subdued  clash  of  silver  against 
glass  sounded  along  with  the  clatter  of  china,  little 
exclamations,  and  the  shuffling  of  feet. 

I  am  dreaming.  Impossible  that  a  gathering  of 
human  beings  should  be  such  an  outrage  on  life, 
such  a  parody  of  it.  AVhen  living  persons  come 
together  and  have  attired  themselves  beautifully, 
it  is  for  the  interchange  of  what  is  best  in  them. 


130  WOMAN 

not  for  the  spilling  of  gall  and  the  raising  of  a 
hubbub.    I  must  be  dreaming. 

Little  groups  were  coming  back;  women's  laugh- 
ter cut  the  curdled  air  like  sharp  lashes. 

Again  I  made  a  painful  effort  and  rose.  With 
the  looks  of  the  women  riddling  me  and  paralyzed 
by  the  men's  attention,  I  crossed  the  room  driven 
by  a  force  that  operated  for  me.  I  found  myself 
beside  him. 

He  raised  his  eyes  slowdy.  Did  he  smile?  I  no 
longer  know.  But  he  looked — as  I  must  have 
looked — as  though  he  were  gazing  into  light. 


XVIII 

I  have  a  new  friend. 

A  friend  .  .  .  When  I  see  him,  it  is  like  a  re- 
vision of  all  I  am,  a  kind  of  unusual  sincerity  that 
urges  me  on,  amplifies  me,  and  carries  me  toward 
him. 

When  he  is  away,  I  have  the  impression  of  hav- 
ing discovered  a  treasure  within  myself  from 
which  I  draw  in  deep  draughts   .    .    . 

And  also  of  hymns  striking  up  beneath  my 
tread. 


BEING  131 

XIX 

' '  \\\ij  ?  Yes,  tell  me  why  you  squeezed  ray  hand 
so  hard?" 

I  lean  towards  him,  my  head  touches  his  chest. 
He  is  enraptured,  overwhelmed,  and  as  smiling  as 
the  night  when  it  is  about  to  pass. 

He  did  not  answer. 

A  silky  wind  blows  down  from  a  sheltering  emi- 
nence and  carves  his  face  and  makes  me  cling  to 
him.  Are  we  on  the  borders  of  the  true  silence, 
the  ultimate  silence  in  which  human  beings  find 
themselves  face  to  face!    ''You!    You!" 

A  terraced  garden.  If  this  were  another  eve- 
ning, I  should  be  discovering  in  detail  how  beau- 
tiful the  garden  is.  Each  walk  opens  up  a  para- 
dise, cool  and  secret  as  a  spring,  and  the  pebbles 
shine  like  glowworms.  Borders  of  irises  with  vio- 
let fragrance  dissolving  among  their  stems,  a  pro- 
fusion of  spreading  boughs,  and  near  our  bench 
a  thicket  from  which  at  intervals  darts  the  straight 
streak  of  a  gray-bird's  flight.  Below  us  in  the  dis- 
tant semi-circle  across  the  fading  daylight  the 
sparkling  apparition  of  a  group  of  houses  lighting 
up. 

The  sight  of  all  this  beauty  fills  me  with  such  a 
glow — almost  hurts  me — because  I  feel  he  is  look- 
ing at  me  .  .  .He  says:  ''Your  shining  curly 
hair,  your  broad,  clear  forehead,  your  mouth,  your 
eyes."  Mentioned  in  his  quivering  passionate 
voice  my  hair,  my  forehead,  my  mouth,  my  eyes 


132  WOMAN 

are  so  new  that  I  close  my  eyes  so  as  to  see  them 
.    .    .   And  I  did  not  know  .    .    . 

The  garden  has  changed.  Pale  ochre  reflections. 
Little  shivers  damp  and  creeping.  Heavy  black 
pockets  on  the  parasol  tops  of  the  trees.  The 
mournful  andante  of  a  swaying  cypress.  As 
though  it  were  the  first  time,  my  beloved,  that  we 
were  alone  and  had  only  found  each  other  this  eve- 
ning under  the  narrow  sky. 

The  shadows  spread  haphazard  piling  up  in 
ridges,  drawing  after  them  dim  white  trails.  Un- 
known thoughts  escape  from  everywhere.  They 
are  too  swift  for  me.  The  breeze  carries  them 
away.  His  face  at  my  right,  blurred  except  for 
the  prominent  features,  is  silvered  over  and 
turned  into  a  medallion  .    .    . 

Am  I  quite  sure  that  he  is  still  close  to  mef  I 
tighten  my  hand  in  his.  The  true,  regular  pulse 
at  his  wrist  assures  me  all  is  well  and  down  here 
everything  is  fair  and  true.  The  garden  and 
the  leaves,  the  multiplying  lights  of  the  town,  the 
gloaming  are  all  real. 

The  air  is  stirring  and  freshening  up.  Let  us 
walk.  Straight  ahead  of  us  as  far  as  the  last  ter- 
race with  its  ornamental  balustrade ;  then  we  will 
follow  the  Broad  Walk  at  the  entrance  of  the 
garden. 

He  takes  my  arm  gently.  I  do  not  dare  to  lean 
on  it,  though  the  weight  of  his  presence  bears  me 
to  the  ground.  I  feel  I  am  alone  in  upholding  his 
life.  Who  will  tell  him,  who  will  ever  tell  him  the 
whole  drama  that  this  means  ?    Will  he  ever  know 


BEING  133 

how  I  see  him,  how  he  lives  for  me  ?  Other  people 
and  he  himself  see  his  huge  figure,  always  a  little 
bowed  as  if  he  never  dared  to  be  altogether  tall, 
the  steel  of  his  eyes,  and  the  slope  of  his  forehead, 
which  eveiy  shadow  exaggerates,  and  his  gaze 
bemired  in  clouds.  They  may  see  his  simplicity 
and  transparent  kindliness ;  but  at  this  they  stop. 

I  am  caught  in  what  is  inexpressible  in  him.  I 
assume  all  the  questions  a  man  may  put  to  himself 
without  being  able  to  solve  them,  all  the  vague 
poignant  evils.  And  when  he  appears,  I  feel  that 
a  word  has  been  fashioned  to  express  everything, 
but  not  a  single  word  to  express  his  face.  It  is 
too  outside  of  everything,  too  mysterious,  perhaps 
too  like  my  own. 

We  are  at  the  Broad  Walk,  a  solemn  pile  in 
which  the  trees  go  two  by  two,  close  together,  erect 
— a  cathedral.  A  chilly  silence  lays  a  sheet  on 
your  shoulders,  the  nave  boldly  thrusts  its  black 
pillars  upwards,  and  the  branches  topping  the 
vault  wed  in  the  skv. 

In  spite  of  yourself  you  say  something  in  a  very 
low  voice.  "Up  there,  that  red  glow  as  through 
a  stained-glass  window." 

''Tell  me  you  love  me  .  .  .  tell  me  .  .  .  tell 
me  you  love  me   .    .    .  " 

He  has  said  m-e,  he  has  said  you,  as  if  it  were 
possible  to  stand  this  shock  on  your  breast  with- 
out turning  pale.  He  sees  I  am  sinking  and  passes 
his  irresistible  arm  about  my  body.  The  future 
tears  itself  to  pieces  at  the  bottom  of  my  life.  At 
the  end  of  the  Broad  Walk  the  last  golden  ray 


r>% 


134  WOMAN 

goes  down  in  a  black  mass.  I  do  not  know  how  to 
say  these  things,  but  I  raise  my  head  like  a  slow 
remonstrance  and  I  hold  my  gaze  up  to  him.  Have 
I  said  everything? 

Let  us  return.  I  can  go  no  further.  He  takes 
my  hand  and  presses  it  with  the  warm  strength 
of  his  fingers.  It  is  limp  and  inert,  the  palm  life- 
less and  cold. 

What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  diaphanous 
gloaming,  this  prolonged  rhapsody  rising  about 
us  ?  I  have  loved  once  already,  and  that  counts  I 
know.  But  if  I  had  not  had  this  great  passion  to 
love  another  man,  if  I  did  not  still  have  it,  would 
my  heart  be  so  clairvoyant?  Would  the  new  eve- 
ning be  as  mild  as  it  is?  But  if  in  spite  of  my 
deepened  heart,  I  am  not  yet  all-embracing  and 
big  enough? 

We  have  gone  the  full  length  of  the  Broad  Walk 
and  back.  Have  we  really  gone  so  far?  Behind 
us  the  view  retreats  into  the  opaque  distance,  and 
the  whole  pile,  as  mournful  as  a  church  abandoned 
by  God,  fades  away  slowly  beneath  a  pall  of  si- 
lence. Our  walk  is  almost  at  an  end.  We  still 
have  to  cross  a  deserted  spot,  where  thin  bushes 
hold  up  their  charred  arms  to  support  the  slant- 
ing line  of  the  gold  and  black  rays. 

Does  he  see  this  high  dizzy  instant  passing 
close  within  our  reach?  I  might  snatch  it  perhaps 
but  for  these  mad  throbbings,  this  veil  over  my 
eyes,  the  dryness  of  my  lips.  Only  the  fragments 
of  the  instant  reach  me,  but  even  they  are  beauti- 
ful enough  to  dazzle  me. 


BEING  135 

He  stops  and  faces  me  and  his  gaze  fixes  on  my 
throat.  Doubtless  he  too  is  catching  the  frag- 
ments.  .    .    . 

What  are  you  to  do  when  you  are  a  mere  hum- 
ble human  being  and  have  no  power  to  retain  the 
superhuman  moments  f 

May  my  longing  for  truth  at  least  flame  out. 
My  love  of  truth  is  my  finest  quality,  my  one 
merit.  May  it  shake  me  as  the  wind  shakes  a  tree, 
and  may  my  hands,  if  they  dare,  rend  these  gar- 
ments which  hide  me  from  his  eye.  Garments  are 
a  lie,  and  the  moment  is  naked.  .    .    . 

He  has  understood.  He  trembles  so  visibly  that 
I  feel  my  breasts  quiver  like  twin  flowers  and  my 
whole  being  stir.  He  draws  me  to  him  and  holds 
without  daring  to  embrace  me,  small,  panting, 
fainting  away  .    .    . 

The  pile  has  been  swallowed  up,  the  Broad  Walk 
has  turned  black,  the  beautiful  moment  has  fled 
through  my  fault ;  we  have  only  a  few  steps  far- 
ther to  go.  If  I  have  nothing  to  give  him,  may  he 
at  least  share  with  me  the  one  idea  I  still  retain. 

This  idea  is  the  strange  knowledge  I  have  of  my 
body,  but  of  a  body  no  longer  mine,  so  lucid  has 
it  become,  full  of  resonances,  coursing  blood, 
warmth  and  appeal  ...  a  body  of  mysterious 
flesh  and  tense  limbs,  as  bright  as  a  torch,  as  sen- 
sitive as  a  soul  ...  a  body  I  want  to  give  him — 
my  body  and  my  arms. 


136  WOMAN 


XX 


"No,  don't  get  up,  stay  where  you  are ;  it  is  I. 

''You  told  me  you  were  not  going  to  work  this 
evening,  so  I  came.    I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

''I  am  going  to  sit  beside  you,  if  you  don't  mind, 
on  the  cushion  on  the  floor  under  the  window, 
where  I  like  to  sit  when  it  is  as  light  as  it  is  now. 

''I  hesitate,  not  because  it's  hard  to  say.  On 
the  contrary,  it's  too  simple,  and  things  too  sim- 
ple are  beyond  words'  to  express. 

''I  really  have  nothing  to  tell  you.  You  under- 
stood. You  know.  But  it  is  right  for  me  to  come 
and  right  that  the  confession  I  want  to  make 
should  revert  to  our  love,  for  it  has  to  do  with  our 
love. 

*'How  you  look  at  me  .  .  .  Your  eyes  probe 
to  the  depths  .  .  .  Yes.  That  is  it  .  .  .  You 
do  see,  don't  you?    I  love  him. 

''Perhaps  the  confession,  which  is  so  long,  so 
long  in  beginning  and  has  weighed  so  heavily,  is 
already  finished?  .  .  .  No.  Since  my  eyes  are 
overflowing,  I  have  not  yet  made  it.  Well,  listen, 
I  have  no  idea  any  more  of  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you,  but  don't  interrupt,  let  me  say  every- 
thing .    .    . 

"Oh,  I  wanted  to  speak  in  orderly  sequence,  and 
I  promised  myself  I  should  not  be  moved  but 
would  talk  to  you  quite  simply.  When  I  came  in, 
I  felt  I  was  growing  and  rising.  I  heard  my  own 
words  stirring  like  live  things   .    .    .  But  they  are 


BEING  137 

trivial ;  they  hurt  me  so  I  wish  I  could  find  others. 

''To  think  that  here  at  this  window  we  have  so 
often  talked  of  love,  not  of  our  love,  but  of  all 
love.  You  remember?  You  used  to  say — I  think 
it  was  you:  'What  is  beautiful  is  not  the  face  you 
love  so  dearly,  it  is  the  need  to  love  it  dearly. 
What  matters  is  not  the  delirium  in  which  two 
people  lose  themselves,  but  the  truth  they  dis- 
cover.' And  when  you  and  I  evoked  those  two 
rays  of  light  which  are  one,  love  and  truth,  our 
words  were  so  vast  that  we  had  to  stop  talking. 

"This  evening — do  you  know  why? — instead  of 
telling  their  splendid  secret  my  words  are  mere 
splinters  ripping  my  throat  .  .  .  Yet  when  we 
used  to  talk  here,  I  did  not  know  love  was  so 
beautiful ;  we  did  not  say  it  was. 

"You  certainly  saw  the  change  in  me,  and  you 
guessed.  The  morning  when  you  stopped  in  front 
of  me  and  restrained  the  exclamation  in  your 
breast,  I  was  sure  you  knew.  Perhaps  it  was  very 
apparent.  I  came  and  went  in  a  radiance;  the 
house  grew  chilly,  everything  in  the  house  was 
conscious  of  it  and  unnatural.  Evenings  I  worked 
later  and  later,  as  if  I  were  afraid  of  falling 
asleep,  and  when  we  discussed  things,  it  was  I 
who  explained,  I  who  knew.  You  must  have  seen, 
too,  how  often  I  buried  myself  in  silence,  content 
in  it  sometimes,  then  tortured. 

"You  observed  me.  There  was  no  reason  for 
speaking  one  day  rather  than  another? 

"A  reason  has  arisen. 

*'Tt  was  yesterday  evening.     Walking  beside 


138  WOMAN 

him  I  suddenly  realized!  that  in  him,  in  ns,  in  me, 
there  was  a  sort  of  attraction ;  I  responded  to  it — 
with  all  the  strong,  fine  need  of  truth  you  gave  me. 
It  is  this  need  of  truth  which  brings  me  to  you 
this  evening. 

''Take  it,  take  it  before  giving  it  back  to  me. 
Don't  let  us  ask  whether  it  is  more  painful  for 
you  who  receive  it  than  for  me  who  bestow  it.  Let 
us  forget  that  man  retains  the  proud  authority 
of  the  male  in  his  flesh  and  says  "possess"  as  of  a 
thing.  Don't  let  us  ask  whether  the  union  between 
man  and  woman  is  sublime  to  this  degree.  Let 
ours  take  that  stand.  One  always  has  the  time 
to  suffer  in,  but  there  is  only  one  time  in  which 
to  love  in  truth. 

' '  See,  maybe  it  is  at  this  very  moment  when  my 
voice  is  worn  threadbare  and  in  spite  of  yourself 
you  push  my  head  away  and  hold  yourself  up  as 
if  you  were  about  to  fall,  that  we  draw  closer  to- 
gether than  ever  before. 

"You  are  watching  the  night  as  it  comes  creep- 
ing .  .  .  you  see,  don't  you?  There  is  no  ques- 
tion, not  for  a  moment,  of  parting,  nor  of  my  lov- 
ing you  less.  Because  our  hearts  are  turned  to- 
wards each  other  to-day.  A  miracle  is  taking 
place.    It  will  not  be  undone. 

"Listen  to  me.  Listen  to  me  as  if  you  could 
understand.  Let  me  spread  at  your  feet  the  infin- 
ity I  hold  .  .  .  Since  he  came,  if  you  only  knew, 
I  love  you  more.  Not  only  do  I  feel  your  smile 
and  your  whole  presence  around  me  like  a  thou- 
sand arms  and  with  even  more  than  one  heart,  but 


BEING  139 

I  feel  surer  of  myself,  nobler,  and — admit  it — 
more  beautiful  ...  To  love  you  is  to  think  per- 
fection, nobility,  light,  and  to  stretch  my  hands  out 
to  them.    It  is  nothing  else. 

''To  go  to  him  is  to  continue  myself;  it  is  not 
to  lessen  you. 

''But  .  .  .  Is  it  the  dusk  or  the  reflection  of 
the  tree?  Your  cheeks  are  ashen,  your  eyes  are 
quite  wet,  and  in  spite  of  everything,  in  spite  of 
everything  I  am  hurting  you  ...  At  the  mo- 
ment that  you  love  like  a  God,  you  suffer  like  a 
man.   .    .    . 

"It  is  because  our  understanding  is  a  high  one 
that  your  grief  is  deep  and  my  confession  neces- 
sary. 

"If  you  knew,  if  you  knew.  .    .    . 

"You  see,  I  still  tremble  before  stopping  just 
as  I  hesitated  before  sitting  down,  because  once 
my  confession  is  made  we  shall  both  feel  that  it 
is  closed  forever. 

"Does  one  ever  Know  whether  one  has  not  omit- 
ted the  essential  word,  the  life  word,  the  one  that 
means  everything  and  has  not  been  said?  I  no 
longer  know.  It  is  as  if  I  still  had  it  within 
me   .    .    . 

"Let  me  stay  where  I  am,  near  you,  for  a  long 
time.  You  will  let  my  head  rest  on  your  knees, 
the  night  will  succeed  better  than  I  in  revealing 
the  heart  unseen. 

"Perhaps  he  has  come  already  .  .  .  Tell  me 
.    .    .   do  you  hear  him?" 


140  WOMAN 

XXI 

How  liappy  I  was!  ...  I  listened  without 
stirring  to  the  deep  throbbing  of  his  life.  I  came 
to  know  him  better  through  the  regular  pulsing 
of  his  neck,  the  twisting  of  his  arms  and  the 
warmth  that  passed  between  us  than  through  our 
past  meetings.  All  the  warm  invisible  things  that 
work  in  the  depths  of  a  human  being,  the  changing 
fate,  the  mystery  circulating  in  the  blood,  were 
talking  into  my  ears. 

Here  we  were  alongside  each  other,  breathing 
in  unison — can  you  have  enough  of  such  hap- 
piness ?  I  entrusted  my  entire  being  to  him ;  it  was 
a  pure,  holy  fulfilment. 

There's  no  use  trying  to  sum  matters  up  differ- 
ently. It  may  be  that  at  death  you  find  the  higher 
expression,  the  illumination  so  sought  for,  but  the 
living  have  no  other  way  of  saying  the  truth  to 
each  other  than  through  the  flesh. 

You  understand,  don't  you,  that  you  have  to 
rest  from  living!  No  longer  to  have  this  gaping 
heart,  this  pitiless,  relentless  love,  but  simply  to 
lie  stretched  out  close  against  him,  so  that  the 
whole  universe  comes  rushing  to  you,  the  mystery 
reveals  itself,  and  life  finds  consolation  .  .  . 
Does  God  ever  bestow  greater  charity? 

I  have  just  given  him  my  life,  my  body,  my    | 
very  depths,  and  he  is  gone  to  sleep. 


BEING  141 

Then  a  liumaii  being  never  knows  what  another 
human  being  gives  him? 

Physical  love  joins  nothing,  leaves  nothing. 
Nevertheless,  it  seems  to  bring  everything,  and  it 
does  bring  everything  at  the  red  moment  of  em- 
brace. 

The  joy  at  which  I  grasped  has  departed;  my 
lips  are  dry,  my  arms  empty. 

Yet  a  little  while  ago  I  thought  I  was  going  to 
live  like  God.  And  to  have  had  the  hope  of  living 
like  God  for  a  single  instant  is  in  itself  beautiful 
enough. 


XXII 

*'You  really  want  to  know  what  I  am  thinking 
of?  And  why  I  look  so  obstinate  with  my  eye- 
brows projecting  like  a  black  roof  over  my  eyes? 

'*I  was  working  out  an  idea,  the  sort  of  idea 
that  seems  silly  when  you  try  to  express  it,  but 
is  really  quite  reasonable  and  logical  .    .    . 

''Why  do  you  insist  upon  my  telling  you?  I 
assure  you  it's  so  simple  that  you,  a  man,  won't 
understand. 

"Well  then.  I  was  thinking  of  your  wife  .  .  . 
No,  don't  interrupt  .  .  .  the  woman  who  shares 
your  name,  your  home,  your  meals,  the  money  you 
earn,  your  cares ;  the  woman  who  lives  beside  you 
— here's  the  one  wrong — in  utter  ignorance  of 
your  love  for  me. 

"I  was  imagining — this  is  where  the  vagary 


142  WOMAN 

commences — a  meeting  between  the  two  of  ns,  not 
a  meeting  of  constrained  smiles,  not  the  confronta- 
tion of  two  human  beings,  with  elements  of  the 
dramatic  and  the  divine.  Do  try  to  follow  me. 
Put  together  the  details  I  am  going  to  give  you 
one  by  one  the  way  they  are  in  reality.  Give  the 
extraordinary  interview  the  ordinary  setting  of 
humble,  banal,  tame  everydayness.  I  told  you  it 
was  a  silly  notion. 

**I  go  to  visit  her.  The  interview  takes  place 
amid  her  familiar  accustomed  things,  which  assist 
and  protect  her.  She  sits  beside  the  window — 
her  little  sewing-table,  her  work-basket,  a  dozen 
scattered  articles.  She  sews  without  thinking  of 
much,  in  the  broad  daylight  so  dazzlingly  brilliant 
that  you  can't  see  the  swing  of  the  pendulum. 
Her  head  is  bent,  the  sunlight  grazes  her  neck. 
You  feel  her  spirit  is  with  her  needle  and  thread, 
that  is,  crystallized  in  calm.  Her  tranquillized 
body  submits  in  advance  to  the  impending  visit. 
She  has  only  to  lift  her  eyes  to  know  the  limits 
set  to  her  being,  the  very  boundary-line  of  every- 
thing she  awaits. 

*'I  enter.  I  go  to  her.  My  steps  erect  a  hedge  of 
sound  around  me.  To  make  myself  seen  I  raise  my 
voice  .  .  .  How  make  myself  heard?  I  do  not 
know  .  .  .  Since  truth  is  triumphant,  the  an- 
nouncement of  my  presence  may  be  triumphant  al- 
so. It  may  write  'I  love  him'  all  over  me  before  we 
shake  hands  or  even  give  each  other  the  first  look. 


BEING  143 

''She  knows.  She  knows  everything.  I  feel 
bathed  in  a  vast  thankfulness.  Just  imagine: 
when  people  talk  of  you,  she  is  the  only  one  in  the 
world  who  knows  do\vn  to  the  very  roots  of  her 
being  the  full  content  of  their  words.  It  is  as  if  I 
were  speaking  to  God. 

"Well,  I  begin.  Laughing,  cr>^ing  I  impart 
what  cannot  be  imparted.  I  hurry.  The  words 
flowing  from  my  lips  warm  me  with  their  generous 
wine,  and  I  hear  love  pouring  forth. 

"I  see  myself,  almost  on  my  knees,  scarcely  per- 
ceiving her.  Is  it  to  her  that  I  address  myself?  I 
speak  merely  in  order  to  remove  a  barrier  ob- 
structing the  light  and  to  say  the  truth. 

''In  the  breathless  words  that  I  pour  out  at  her 
feet  it  is  not  a  question  perhaps  of  either  her  or 
myself.  Why  should  it  be?  I  never  considered 
that  I  was  doing  her  a  wrong.  If  she  reads  my 
face,  she  will  see  things  as  they  are.  Have  I 
turned  anything  away  from  her,  have  I  diminished 
her  portion,  have  I  deprived  her  of  anything?  I 
have  simply  given  you  everything. 

"Don't  say  she  might  repulse  me  and  would  be 
right  if  she  did,  because  that,  after  all,  would  be 
the  human  way  to  act.  Human  to  you  means 
everything  that  deceives  itself  and  denies  the  es- 
sential grace,  everything  that  falls  and  dies  in  the 
mud  of  the  road.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  a  woman 
when  she  loves  does  not  feel  that  sort  of  humanity 
die? 

"You  look  at  me  dubiously.    Of  course  you  can- 


144  WOMAN 

not  know.  You  men  tolerate  an  "understanding 
between  two  women  when  it  exists  for  the  sake  of 
cherishing  the  dust-covered  memory  of  a  man.  A 
tomb  reassures  you.  You  will  never  allow  life  as 
a  pretext.  According  to  you  we  have  no  right  to 
a  sisterhood  until  it  is  too  late. 

**In  my  unfailing  and  fatal  sincerity  I  say  your 
wife  might  understand.  Truth  striking  the  ear  is 
bound  to  impress.  And  that  I  should  be  alive  as 
I  am  alive  at  this  moment,  with  the  eloquence  and 
magic  that  spring  from  real  presences,  is  also 
bound  to  impress.  Look  at  me.  Need  I  say  a 
single  word?  Isn't  a  great  love  with  eyes  up- 
lifted convincing? 

''When  you  tell  me  sometimes  that  I  am  beau- 
tiful, it  is  like  a  gift.  She  would  see  me  bearing 
this  gift,  and  if  she  perceived  her  forty  years 
moaning  and  fading  at  my  approach,  she  would 
understand  that  age  in  a  woman  is  an  offense  love 
cannot  forgive. 

''Your  eyes  are  searching  space.  You  are  won- 
dering where  such  a  conversation  would  lead  her 
and  me.  Don't  bother.  It  would  merely  lead  me 
to  the  side  of  truth  and  her  to  its  summit.  I  imag- 
ined that  was  enough  and  one  could  stop  there. 

"I  imagined  that  after  I  had  spoken,  she  would 
rise  and  stand  without  taking  a  single  step,  up- 
right and  solemn,  her  work  at  her  feet,  she  would 
feel  the  morals  of  the  world  collapse,  its  false 
hells,  its  hardness  and  harshness,  its  monstrous 


BEING  145 

delusions,  everything  that  sheathed  her  in  a  coat 
of  mail  and  incited  her  to  self-defense  .  .  .  Feel- 
ing her  heart  set  at  liberty,  she  would  think  of 
you,  but  of  you  with  your  body  sloughed ;  of  your 
real  self  hidden  where  neither  she  nor  I  can  pene- 
trate. 

*  *  Then  she  would  draw  nearer — ^would  she  know 
to  what?  It  is  a  deep-seated  law  in  us  to  try  des- 
perately to  approach  something.  She  would  re- 
discover the  dazzling  moments  when  her  twenty 
years  of  age  gave  her  the  power  to  bid  the  sub- 
missive universe  do  everything  for  your  good.  It 
would  be  a  similar  instant  that  I  would  place  like 
a  sheaf  of  wheat  in  her  open  arms.  Don't  you 
see? 

''The  room  sparkles  in  all  its  sunlight;  every 
surface  sends  forth  gleams;  the  day  calls  to  the 
day  and  floats  before  her.  Are  we  rivals?  We 
are  simply  sisters  in  the  same  love.  I  want  to 
take  her  hands  because  I  remember  that  once  you 
chose  her  .    .    . 

"Well  .    .    . 

"But  my  notion  is  squelched.  I  couldn't  help 
it.  Your  astonished  expression  squelched  it.  Be- 
fore I  spoke,  when  the  idea  was  still  imprisoned 
behind  the  wall  of  my  forehead,  it  gave  me  a  light 
like  a  torch,  I  assure  you.  You  questioned  me, 
and  now  it's  a  mocking  will-o'-the-wisp,  teasing 
me  from  a  distance  and  vanishing  as  I  advance. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  an  idea  not  to  be  liandled? 

"I  have  fallen  short  of  caressing  a  bit  of  truth 


146  WOMAN 

between  my  clasped  hands.    It  escaped  me 
And  you  smile  consoled." 


XXIII 

Twice  we  said  we  would  part  at  the  turn  of  the 
road,  at  that  tree,  exactly  at  that  tree,  and  twice 
we  passed  by  laughing  at  our  weakness.  We  still 
could  not  believe  in  the  separation  at  hand. 

But  the  moment  was  upon  us. 

There,  at  the  house  hidden  behind  the  trees  and 
bushes,  you  will  go  on,  and  I  will  stand  still. 

He  pressed  my  hand  with  increasing  tender- 
ness. My  laugh  taunted  us  with  so  much  assur- 
ance that  I  tried  to  believe  in  it.  To  fill  up  the 
gaps,  we  blustered  and  said  the  needless  inconse- 
quent things  people  always  say  when  they  face 
a  long  separation. 

It  was  a  little  before  noon.  The  sheeted  shad- 
ows cast  by  the  sunlight  burned  and  smoked  in 
bluish  waves.  Between  the  trees  of  the  woods 
stretching  beside  the  sea  liquid  flakes  blinded  your 
eyes.  You'd  see  annoying  red  spots  long  after 
you'd  turned  your  eyes  away. 

I  said  to  myself:  ''Only  a  few  steps  more  and 
it  will  be  over.  One  step  less  and  another  minute 
will  be  plucked  from  our  parting."  To  keep  down 
my  emotion  I  hurriedly  spoke  of  something  else. 

It  must  have  rained  in  the  morning.  When  we 
brushed  against  the  branches,  the  silence  was 
broken  at  our  feet  by  the  limpid  sound  of  falling 


BEING  147 

drops,  the  leaves  wore  a  new  skin,  and  the  at- 
mosphere, impregnated  with  freshness,  smiled  the 
smile  of  nature  when  she  wants  to  dry  her  tears. 
The  depths  of  the  woods  were  enveloped  in  a  blue 
down ;  a  troop  of  squat  little  fir-trees,  their  skirts 
on  a  level  with  the  ground,  rang  a  crisp  chime. 
We  hurried,  so  at  one  in  our  approaching  dis- 
tress that  we  went  too  fast.  The  house  behind  the 
trees  and  bushes  came,  into  more  prominent  view 
— shutters  like  eyes  pitilessly  closed,  pointed  teeth 
of  a  gray-painted  fence,  threatening  minutiae  of 
a  garden  descending  a  bushy  battered  skull  of  a 
slope.  But  after  all,  there  can  be  no  such  thing 
as  separation  between  us  two.  .  .  .  And  for  a 
moment,  to  prove  the  strength  of  love,  yes,  for  a 
moment,  I  was  ready  to  run. 

Here  we  are  at  the  house.  Seen  at  close  range 
with  its  covering  of  red  tiles  and  rugged  face  and 
front  fanned  by  two  dwarf  firs,  the  little  house  in 
the  way  of  our  free  career  does  not  seem  very 
imposing. 

It  must  be.  What's  the  use  of  delaying  any 
more  ?  Is  it  saddening  to  part  when  each  carries 
away  the  other !  For  I  carry  away  your  voice,  and 
the  sadness  of  your  eyes,  and  this  kiss  I  give  you. 
...  I  do  not  leave  you;  I  am  not  even  dis- 
tressed.   Look,  I  am  leaving  you. 

I  took  a  few  steps  away.  They  rang  under  my 
eyes.  I  picked  up  every  detail  of  our  parting  and 
h*ld  it  pressed  against  my  heart,  each  grain  of 


148  WOMAN 

red  earth,  each  flash  of  mica  in  the  road.  It  was 
not  so  difficult  .    .    . 

Behind  me  I  heard  him  walking  away  with  a 
tread  heavier  than  mine,  which  seemed  to  set 
stones  tumbling  down  a  mountainside  .  .  .  Two 
months  .  .  .  What  is  an  absence  of  two  months  ? 
I  decided  not  to  turn  around. 

The  road  narrowed  and  became  a  serpent  of 
clay,  then  a  creamy  winding.  I  tried  so  hard  to 
think  of  nothing  that  I  noticed  a  great  many  sur- 
prising things  we  had  not  observed  before. 
That  tree  with  a  heavy  black  ball  at  the  end  of  its 
longest  branch  which  the  birds  of  heaven  had 
stuffed  with  earth  and  was  now  grass-grown ;  the 
slope  with  a  red  covering  of  rich  plants  made, 
you'd  think,  of  fingers  dipped  in  blood.   .    .    . 

It  was  in  spite  of  myself  that  I  faced  about.  A 
dark  figure  just  this  side  of  the  last  bend  in  the 
road. 

Ah,  he  turns  round ;  he  heard  me.  Could  we  re- 
main apart?  I  stretch  my  arms  out  to  him,  I 
begin  to  run.  Why  did  we  talk  of  other  things  a 
few  minutes  ago  1    Were  we  insane  ?  .    .    . 

I  have  already  passed  the  dead  aloe,  I  am  near 
the  house  with  its  two  firs.  My  abrupt  race 
swells  my  decision  not  to  leave  him.  I  lift  my 
eyes.    He  didn't  see  me. 

His  form  is  no  more  than  a  black  point,  a  blind 
insect  nibbling  at  the  road  and  entering  the  earth's 
lair.  .    .    .  One  last  step.    It  is  over,  it  is  over. 

My  arms  fall,  I  turn  back  stumbling,  dizzy. 


»  BEING  149 

How  can  yon  tell  what  sort  of  a  road  it  is  when 
the  sun  is  the  color  of  mourning  and  the  summer 
has  the  taste  of  tears'?  .    .    .  Doesn't  he  know? 

Noon.  The  Angelus  tosses  its  twelve  bronze 
strokes  at  the  sun  and  they  slowly  dissolve.  But 
I  am  insensible  to  everything.  Everything.  The 
host  of  trees,  the  flashing  breastplate  of  the  sea 
turn  around  an  empty  space. 

Why  this  sky  stretching  out  after  the  branches, 
why  this  sparkling  happiness,  why  this  sleepiness 
of  the  earth  when  I  am  racked  and  branded  with 
a  red-hot  iron  by  what  I  failed  to  say  while  there 
was  still  time  I 


BOOK  III 

BECOMING 


151 


1HAD  been  counting  the  days  until  I  could  call 
the  day  I  was  yearning  for  by  its  name,  a 
name  new  to  me  every  morning.  To  have  said 
good-bye  for  two  months,  to  have  lived  apart  so 
long  and  almost  without  news,  and  now  finally  to 
be  able  to  caress  the  ardent  moment  which  gives 
each  back  to  the  other,  if  only  for  a  short  space ; 
to  caress  it  as  you  hold  your  hands  up  to  the  fire. 
By  a  great  effort  I  succeeded  in  remaining  calm. 

I  had  put  my  house  in  order,  filled  my  vases 
with  flowers,  and  made  myself  beautiful.  My  vel- 
vet gowTi  dulled  the  light,  so  that  by  contrast  I 
seemed  to  have  a  halo  round  my  bared  neck. 

The  hour  drew  near.  The  clock  struck.  But, 
no,  the  clock  must  be  fast.  .  .  .  The  next  mo- 
ments stabbed  the  silence,  dragging  on  leaden  feet. 
I  went  to  the  window.  On  turning  back  into  the 
room,  I  was  delighted  to  discover  a  few  things  to 
do.  The  little  round  corner  table  was  standing 
tipped,  there  were  too  many  leaves  in  the  bouquet 
.  .  .and  this  wisp  of  hair  straggling  down  my 
cheek.  No,  he  was  not  coming.  Waiting  is  a  death 
died  over  and  over  again. 

At  last.   .    .    . 

To  think  I  could  have  breathed  till  now !  You  I 
He  moved  toward  me  rather  timidly,  almost  as  if 

153 


154  WOMAN 

he  were  a  stranger.  It  occurred  to  me  that  he 
was  not  familiar  with  my  home.  A  panic  seized 
me :  he  might  not  like  it. 

But  in  one  bound  I  was  close  to  him,  my  head 
on  his  shoulder  and  his  arms  around  me.  I  forgot 
everything.  "I  am  so  happy,  so  happy."  We 
found  ourselves  in  my  little  room,  where  the  flow- 
ers piercing  the  twilight  opened  wide  their  mock 
hearts.   .    .    . 

But  how  he  had  changed;  his  face  had  grown 
thinner.  .  .  .  Why  that  overcast  brow,  that  look 
of  depression,  that  manner  of  not  being  at  home? 
.  .  .  What  was  the  matter  with  him?  .  .  .  What 
was  the  matter  with  him? 

Though  there  had  been  no  time  for  conversa- 
tion, and  we  had  merely  exchanged  awkward,  ran- 
dom questions,  I  felt  suddenly  that  our  hearts  had 
ceased  to  beat  in  unison. 

He  should  speak.  I  must  know!  Nothing  is 
worse  than  not  knowing.   .    .    . 

^'I'll  tell  you,"  he  began,  resting  his  head  on 
his  hands.  He  had  suffered  too  much  by  our  sep- 
aration; he  had  realized  this  forcibly  again  just 
now  when  he  entered  my  home  where  everything 
dispossessed  him ;  he  could  no  longer  live  without 
me,  so  far  away;  he  needed  me  all  the  time,  every 
minute.  Oh,  he  knew  there  was  something  irra- 
tional in  his  entreaty,  but  all  he  had  was  plain 
conmion  sense.  '' Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  ''there's 
an  instinct,  an  instinct  stronger  .  .  .  but  you 
don't  understand  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  I've  told  you 
everything  . .    .  that's  all." 


BECOMING  155 

He  began  again.  His  expostulations  breathed 
an  awful  storm;  while  an  icy  clearness  and  a  ter- 
rible calm  rose  in  me.  Fear  crept  into  me  down 
to  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones.  What  could  I 
say  to  a  man  who  suddenly  talked  another  lan- 
guage I    All  I  had  was  the  words  we  used  to.   .    .    • 

"Answ^er  me,  I  beg  of  you,  answer  me,  even  if 
it  is  no,  but  answer  me.   .    .    .  " 

Did  I  have  to  begin  all  over  again — give  every- 
thing and  explain  everything  all  over  again? 
Until  then  I  had  been  carried  along  on  the  sus- 
taining bosom  of  a  powerful  stream.  Now  a  tor- 
rent furiously  discharged  its  troubled  waters  and 
infernal  foam  into  the  even  flow,  and  I  had  to  fight 
my  way  back  up  against  the  current  in  a  desper- 
ate life-and-death  struggle. 

So  it  seems  that  the  bonds  of  flesh  make  mock 
of  you;  instead  of  uniting,  they  detach,  leaving 
each  of  you  to  wrestle  and  paralyze  the  other's 
limbs  like  entangling  undergrowth. 

And  does  it  seem  that  the  bonds  of  the  spirit 
are  not  strong  enough  because  they  always  lack 
some  link  or  word  or  look? 

If  it  were  not  that  I  had  found  complete  har- 
mony with  another  human  being,  I  should  have 
doubted  whether  a  man  and  a  woman  could  ever 
love,  that  is,  ever  understand  each  other. 

The  thought  inspired  me  with  supreme  strength. 
A  hot  wave  kissed  my  mouth  and  ears ;  I  pushed 
him  away. 

His  wife.  She  was  the  first  consideration.  Re- 
membering her  gentleness,  I  spoke  of  her  gently. 


156  WOMAN 

To  be  with  me  he  could  give  up  twenty  years  of 
his  life  in  common,  twenty  years  of  attentions  and 
indulgences,  twenty  deeply  rooted  years.  She  was 
a  frail  loving  woman  who  had  once  been  beautiful ; 
she  was  nearly  forty,  which  in  a  woman  is  to  have 
no  age.  .  .  .  Wouldn't  my  presence,  conse- 
quently, result  in  hurting  another  woman?  .  .  . 
And  would  I  do  such  a  thing,  I  who  brought  so 
much  warmth  of  feeling  and  enthusiasm  to  what 
was  beautiful,  right,  and  high-spirited? 

**In  loving  you  I  wanted  everything  about  you 
to  be  brighter,  easier  and  more  perfect ;  and  just 
when  I  rapturously  believed  I  had  succeeded,  you 
come  and  brusquely  ask  me  to  remove  the  light 
from  another  being.  That's  what  you  are  really 
asking  me  to  do. 

''More.  The  man  in  whose  name  I  built  my 
house — don't  be  afraid  it's  his  suffering  I  dread; 
I  love  him  enough  to  rise  above  pity.  But  I 
thought  I  told  you  that  he  is  necessary  to  my  efful- 
gence ;  you  understand,  necessary.  .  .  .  Remem- 
ber, he  is  the  one  to  whom  I  told  the  truth,  in 
whose  presence  I  could  live  while  at  the  same  time 
holding  your  presence,  who  has  suffered  through 
me  without  loving  me  the  less,  and  prefers  my 
happiness  to  his  own  heart's  happiness.  That's 
the  sort  of  man  he  is.  That  sort  of  man  exists. 
And  you  would  deprive  me  of  him ! 

' '  But  if,  to  get  me  away  from  him,  you  were  to 
offer  something  superior,  a  more  perfect  means 
of  elevating  me  and  teaching  me  to  know,  I  should 
go  unafraid,  perhaps  without  hesitating.    Love  is 


BECOMING  157 

the  thing  that  elevates  life.  .  .  .  But  you,  what 
do  you  offer?  Feeling,  instinct.  Instinct  is  not 
a  reason.  .    .    ." 

I  had  risen  while  speaking.  My  cheeks  and 
forehead  were  burning.  His  face,  plunged  in  the 
snowy  curtain,  was  quite  changed.  Was  it  the 
look  in  his  eyes  or  the  folds  around  his  mouth? 

*' Then  you  don 't  love  me  ?  .  .  ."  He  repeated 
this  like  a  child  taken  with  the  words,  and  dropped 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

That  the  light  fell  about  me  in  gray  veils  may 
have  been  only  a  fleeting  phenomenon.  It  cannot 
be  that  love  will  desert  you  suddenly. 

The  rest  of  his  stay  was  of  no  avail,  and  when 
awkwardness  fell  between  us,  he  rose,  pressed 
his  hands  down  on  my  shoulders,  and  gave  me  a 
long,  sombre  stare.  Then  he  left.  I  heard  the 
door  close  slowly. 

Then  he  doesn't  understand?  But  the  love  I 
feel  for  him  is  a  true  love.  It  is  not  that  unstable 
impulse  which  passion  carries  off  in  a  puff  of  wind. 
My  love,  like  my  life,  craves  all  the  victories  I 
have  gained,  all  the  people  who  are  dear  to  me. 
And  my  eyes  take  in  whatever  they  can  of  sky  and 
color.  .  .  .  Nothing  forbids  me  to  breathe.  Why 
am  I  forbidden  to  love  whatever  I  love  ? 

My  love,  you  will  conquer,  you  will  make  your- 
self understood.  You  are  not  this  man  who  is 
leaving,  nor  the  other  man,  nor  anyone ;  you  are 
a  heart  of  flesh  exposed  ...  a  restless  heart 
without  limit,  a  heart  forever  beating  and  forever 
aimless.     Do  not  let  a  single  one  who  has  ever 


158  WOMAN 

been  with  you  fade  and  drop  away.   If  love  cannot 
conquer,  what  else  is  there  to  resort  to? 
And  I  ran  out  to  overtake  him. 


II 


Only  a  few  months  since  the  first  day  of  the  war, 
yet  I  cannot  recall  one  thing  about  it. 

What  I  know  is,  that  until  the  end  it  will  remain 
the  outstanding  day  of  my  life,  the  day  of  days. 
No  matter  what  happens  later,  we  who  have  lived 
through  it  have  drunli  at  one  draught  the  dregs  of 
all  the  centuries,  we  have  borne  all  the  thunder 
of  the  heavens  on  our  shoulders.  Those  who  ask 
"Why  exactly  us"  do  not  know  that  misfortune  is 
always  waiting  to  extort  its  tax. 

I  do  not  speak  of  the  older  people,  those  of  the 
other  generation,  of  the  other  age :  they  have  not 
been  touched. 

But  we,  we  on  that  day! 

After  all,  I  can  recall  several  words  and  impres- 
sions, but  they  are  no  more  illuminating  than  the 
way  my  folks  used  to  describe  the  day  I  was  born. 
''You  looked  like  a  little  red  monkey,  you  didn't 
cry  much,  your  grandmother  was  the  first  to  kiss 
you,  it  was  a  dreadfully  hot  evening." 

And  I  can  also  recall  Mr.  Barret's  gray  stony 
face,  his  huge,  petrified  figure,  when  he  entered 
the  office  where  we  were  talking  and  regaining  a 
little  hope.  ''It's  here!"  he  discharged  from  the 
doorway.    None  of  us  gave  any  sign  of  under- 


BECOMING  159 

standing.  "It's  posted  on  the  bulletin  boards!" 
h.e  shouted,  and  advanced  into  the  room  like  a 
weapon  about  to  descend. 

As  a  field  of  wheat  catches  fire  stalk  by  stalk 
until  the  whole  is  in  a  blaze,  so  we  caught  fire  in 
our  stupor,  each  spiked  to  the  ground  by  his  own 
flame. 

Fire!  Fire!  Moments  of  scarlet,  strangled 
breathing,  souls  cowering  in  bosoms,  horror,  too 
much  horror  already,  wide-open  eyes  staring  into 
space.  .    .    . 

I  remember  I  had  to  lean  against  the  wall,  and 
other  trifling  incidents,  but  my  impotent  dismay, 
my  realization  of  all  the  folly  let  loose  upon  the 
world  no  more  come  back  to  me  than  the  taste  of 
the  first  gulp  of  life  at  birth. 

I  must  have  kept  a  clear  brain  and  steady  legs, 
because  I  ran  straight  home.  .  .  .  What  street, 
what  hell,  where  was  I  ?  .  .  .  I  had  no  eyes  for 
the  street  nor  ears  for  the  humming  in  my  head, 
nor  consciousness  even  of  the  daze  that  was  driv- 
ing me  on. 

We  met  in  front  of  the  house  whose  quiet  walls 
still  enclosed  our  happiness.  We  passed  under 
the  porte-cochere  heavily,  passively,  like  beasts 
driven  to  slaughter,  and  the  staircase  was  an  as- 
cent to  Calvary.  I  do  not  think  we  exchanged  a 
single  word.  When  the  door  closed  upon  us  we 
embraced  without  kissing,  and  my  cheek  against 
his  shoulder  was  wet  with  tears  that  were  not  of 
my  shedding. 

Tt  had  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  leave  for 


160  WOMAN 

the  war,  but  like  every  other  thought  this  one  too 
was  promptly  chilled  and  crushed.  Nor  can  I  say 
that  it  was  the  idea  of  his  going  that  made  me 
suffer  the  most.  I  was  stupefied  beyond  the  power 
to  suffer.  I  was  just  as  ready  to  burst  out  laugh- 
ing or  tear  off  my  arms.  I  let  myself  be  touched, 
handled,  and  moved  like  a  stone  thrown  into  space. 
But  contact  with  him  restored  me  a  little,  a  very 
little,  to  the  realization  of  what  I  was  going  to 
lose. 

The  days  succeeding  were  spat  from  a  volcano ; 
nothing  remains  of  them  but  ashes.  You  learned 
new  words ;  a  whole  language  born  of  the  moment 
slipped  from  your  tongue ;  countries  became  per- 
sons with  distinct  individualities,  gestures  and 
features.  You  actually  fed  on  what  appeared  in 
the  newspapers,  picking  up  items  like  grains  of 
manna.  Men  alone  counted — men,  men.  Life  was 
in  their  hands,  life  and  the  fate  of  the  world.  So 
and  so  many  killed — abstractions  with  which  the 
world  juggled  in  figures.  Death,  a  human  divinity 
after  all,  settled  down  familiarly.  Nothing  was 
like  anything  that  had  gone  before. 

People  began  to  talk  of  glory.  .   .   . 

A  day  came:  his  departure. 

I  got  his  things  ready  as  I  always  did  before  a 
trip,  from  a  list,  with  my  usual  mania  for  taking 
along  too  many  things.  After  filling  his  bag  with 
all  the  necessaries,  I  stowed  a  tiny  bottle  of  my 
perfume  in  it,  a  cigarette-case,  his  last  birthday 
gift,  some  dried  flowers,  and  our  baby's  photo- 
graph.   I  childishly  pictured  his  exclamation  of 


BECOMING  161 

delighted  surprise  when  he  would  remove  his 
shirts  and  the  picture  would  fall  out. 

Before  he  left  the  house,  hardly  recognizable  in 
his  uniform,  he  kissed  his  son  savagely  and 
pressed  him  long  and  hard,  bending  low  to  hide 
his  tears.  ...  On  the  way  he  spoke  mostly  of 
the  child — commonplaces  to  deaden  his  pain. 
* '  Don 't  let  him  be  too  much  of  a  bother.  You  must 
be  strict  "vvith  him,  you  know."  I  saw  he  was 
entrusting  his  share  in  his  survival  to  me,  and  it 
was  better  to  avoid  reference  to  a  parting  that 
marched  on  to  death. 

Regiments  were  springing  up  on  all  sides, 
troops  of  men  with  innocent  eyes  and  faces  shin- 
ing with  pride;  sons,  brothers,  lovers,  changed 
into  statues  of  men,  in  a  confusion  of  brass  bands, 
cheers,  red  and  gold,  clashing  of  arms,  and  tramp- 
ing of  feet. 

If  only  this  were  hell  in  its  completeness !  But 
he  was  not  there.  He  had  left  six  days  before 
without  my  being  able  to  say  good-bye  to  him. 

There  was  the  last  kiss,  the  fixed,  tangible  sec- 
ond when  you  part  for  good  and  the  yard  of  space 
between  you  actually  counts.  You  were  two  bod- 
ies clasped,  then  you  became  only  one  body,  two 
arms   ...   a  soul  locked  in  a  leaden  coffin. 

There  were  the  wretched  minutes  when  you 
summon  all  your  illusions  to  your  assistance. 
''Nothing  can  possibly  happen  to  him  ...  of 
course  not  to  hi7n.   .    .    ." 

I  returned,  dragging  my  misery  like  a  chain.  I 
was  one  of  the  vast  herd  which  fretted  the  surface 


162  WOMAN 

of  the  earth  like  a  canker,  moulded  and  moved  by 
a  deadly  maniac  hand.  .  .  .  Never  before  has 
there  been  such  a  herd. 

Being  a  woman,  I  felt  withdrawn  from  the  herd, 
exactly  as  I  had  felt  on  the  first  day  of  the  war 
that  humanity  was  cut  in  two — men  and  women. 

I  was  impotent,  curdled,  set  aside.  Like  the 
other  women  I  passed  by  the  young  men  with  or- 
ders to  die  and  only  a  few  days  to  live,  though 
their  bearing  was  of  men  who  had  long  to  live.  I 
passed  by  the  other  women,  useless  flesh  of  the 
earth,  faint-hearted  flesh  for  grieving.   .    .    . 

I  went.  ...  In  another  sense  it  was  the  herd 
that  passed  by,  that  she-thing,  in  countless  num- 
bers, dancing  bacchantes  with  hideous  hyena- 
laughter  and  robes  smelling  of  red  blood  and 
heavy  wine,  compliant.   .    .    . 

You  no  longer  saw  yourself,  because  you  had 
been  swallowed  up  in  a  living  craw. 

Where  were  you,  my  sisters  from  everywhere, 
women  of  Europe,  you,  Trude  and  Clara  and 
Mania?  What  were  you  doing?  Were  you  weep- 
ing? 

You  saw,  didn't  you,  that  bloody  sky  with  forked 
black  signs,  that  summer  swooning  away,  that 
day?  .  .  .  Why  was  not  your  voice  heard  in 
denunciation  of  the  universal  slaughter? 

Why  was  not  my  own  voice  heard,  when  there 
were  outcries  in  my  throat,  tears  in  my  flesh  ? 


BECOMING  163 


ni 


I  am  becoming  horribly  accustomed  to  going 
about  the  empty  apartment  alone.  I  find  I  no 
longer  think  of  the  scowling  walls,  the  dumb  si- 
lence, the  dim  window^s.  They  wrap  me  in  a  vague 
acquiescence.    Habit  is  exerting  its  awful  power. 

I  seem  to  be  gliding  down  a  slope  where  there 
is  no  one  at  the  bottom  to  warn  me  that  there  may 
be  a  precipice  ahead  or  tell  me  whither  this 
strange  existence  leads. 

My  days  are  regulated  according  to  the  rules  I 
myself  have  made  to  apply  only  to  myself;  I  go, 
I  come,  I  turn  the  key  in  the  lock;  I  loiter;  then  I 
rush  at  my  work.  Sometimes  the  mirror  casts  a 
sudden  image  which  runs  away  busily  at  my  ap- 
proach. My  shadow  and  the  creaking  under  my 
tread  are  all  I  have  for  company. 

Yet  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  lived  alone. 
There  once  was  a  room  with  a  flowered  quilt,  a 
moth-eaten  carpet  and  a  rickety  door  which  opened 
like  the  lid  of  a  devil-in-the-bandbox  on  the  ma- 
hogany wig  and  scarlet  smile  of  Mme.  Noel.  But 
everything  was  so  different !  I  brought  nothing  to 
that  virgin  space  except  the  desire  to  fill  it;  my 
body  knew  nothing;  my  inner  being  cried  out  for 
too  many  things  to  be  able  to  hold  any  of  them, 
and  had  I  dared,  I  would  have  stretched  my  arms 
out  through  the  window  to  embrace  the  air  of 
life,   .    .    . 

My  solitude  now  is  like  rotten  fruit ;  it  scorches 


164  WOMAN 

my  entrails  like  a  fiery  driiik.  It  is  a  strange  sol- 
itude. 

Two  men  peopled  my  life  and  fertilized  and 
vivified  it.  But  wasn't  that  very  long  ago  and 
somewhere  else?    Come,  try  to  remember.   .    .    . 

I  do  not  know ;  they  are  neither  dead  nor  alive. 
To  be  sure  they  are  hungry  and  thirsty  and  get 
bored  as  living  people  do,  but  they  are  locked  up 
in  the  earth's  carcass  like  the  real  dead;  and  it 
may  be  that  at  this  very  moment  when  I  am  imag- 
ining them  warm  and  active,  they  are  already  stiff 
and  cold.  To  be  absolutely  truthful,  to  go  down  to 
the  bottom  of  things,  there  is  scarcely  anything  in 
common  between  the  two  men  who  went  to  war 
and  me  who  stayed  behind. 

Sometimes  when  I  am  alone,  I  lean  over,  way 
over,  to  touch  the  very  bottom  of  things  so  as  to 
feel  the  pain  of  it. 

Yes,  letters  pass  between  us.  When  I  read  their 
letters  I  try  to  imagine  their  surroundings  and 
the  crass  details  of  their  life;  the  fir-trees  of  the 
Argonne,  the  name  of  a  regiment  which  I  know 
by  heart  like  a  prayer,  frost-bitten  feet,  the  in- 
cessant thunder,  and  the  arrival  of  the  postman 
which  draws  us  a  little  closer  together.  Then 
there  is  Carency — the  place  makes  no  difference 
— the  light  cavalry.  .  .  .  Attack,  formation, 
the  first  rank  mowed  down,  the  second,  the  third ; 
he  alone  standing  upright  in  the  front  of  the  fourth 
rank,  a  struggle  lasting  a  century,  the  confused 
subsidence,  and  my  portrait  snug  under  his  blue 
jacket.      And    that    night    last    week    when    he 


BECOMING  165 

was  nearly  dying  of  thirst  and  crawled  out  over 
the  open  field,  groping  for  something  to  drink.  A 
miracle,  a  pool !  He  fills  his  mess  cup  and  empties 
it  at  one  draught.  He  spits  out  thick  threads,  they 
hang  from  his  mouth — bits  of  brains.  ...  A 
pool  of  human  blood  from  which  he  has  quenched 
his  thirst. 

I  receive  a  letter  nearly  every  morning.  The 
envelope  burns  in  my  fingers:  the  written  lines 
make  a  pretense  of  talking  and  telling  you  things, 
as  if  I  were  not  standing  in  front  of  him  as  you 
stand  in  front  of  a  window-pane  which  you  frost 
with  your  breath  so  that  you  can't  see  what's  on 
the  other  side. 

I  write  to  them  before  I  go  to  bed.  Nothing  im- 
portant ever  turns  up,  so  I  make  a  lot  of  the  little 
every-day  affairs — what  happens  at  the  office  or 
at  lunch  in  the  restaurant  where  the  people  dis- 
cuss and  wrangle  and  the  smells  turn  you  sick.  I 
tell  them  how  forlorn  the  house  looks,  and  how 
well  the  child  is  getting  along  in  the  country,  that 
I  do  some  work  after  dinner  to  make  a  little  more 
money.  Besides,  there's  always  some  anecdote  to 
relate.  .  .  .  Twelve  strokes  cutting  into  the  me- 
tallic night.  .  .  .  Sometimes  when  I  fold  my 
letter  I  have  a  sense  of  having  written  about  some- 
body else. 

Nevertheless,  the  thought  of  them  is  an  obses- 
sion ;  it  is  a  red  point  about  which  I  develop  and 
revolve  and  add  to  myself. 

And  sometimes,  too,  when  I  shut  my  eyes, 
bizarre  notions  swoop  down  on  me,  a  horrid  swarm 


166  WOMAN 

of  bats.  **How  many  women  are  there  tonight," 
I  wonder,  "who  are  tossing  about  in  the  thin 
warmth  of  their  beds,  distracted  creatures,  tor- 
mented, empty-armed,  who,  however,  are  the  big- 
ger for  all  this,  easy  in  their  minds  and  free  al- 
ready in  their  bitter  freedom?" 

Yes  there  are  many  women  tonight  without  hus- 
bands or  lovers  who  wonder  as  they  lie  in  bed; 
then  they  sit  up  and  lean  on  their  elbows  .  .  . 
they  don't  knoiv  yet  or  suspect  anything  .  .  . 
but  they  don't  sleep,  they  can't  sleep;  it's  too  ab- 
surd to  think  that  a  woman  can  live  all  alone,  sleep 
alone,  even  breathe.  And  then  it  might  be  that 
the  closest  union  is  a  prison  after  all. 

At  last  I  fall  asleep,  and  in  the  morning,  in  the 
bald,  shivering  twilight,  I  go  back  to  my  doings 
of  the  day  before,  somewhat  cowardly  doings. 
Dull  habit,  which  greases  the  machinery  of  life, 
leads  me  blindly  along  the  streets  to  the  office. 

Was  it  only  two  months  ago  that  with  despair 
in  my  heart  I  passed  this  corner  where  the  chest- 
nut-stand sends  up  its  whistling  steam?  His  let- 
ter in  my  bosom  had  told  of  the  night  attack  and 
of  his  possible  death ;  a  brief,  heart-rending  fare- 
well. Is  he  in  less  danger  this  morning,  is  he  less 
cold,  less  hungry?  I  just  passed  the  same  corner 
worried  for  fear  I  might  be  late.  The  whole  way 
I  had  been  thinking  of  my  dress  and  winter  hat. 

That's  how  you  get  used  to  the  martyrdom  of 
others. 

Even  if  it  is  the  flesh  of  your  flesh  that  undef^ 
goes  the  martyrdom,  even  if  it  is  the  man  of  yonj 


BECOMING  167 

love — ah,  don't  say  no — you  get  used  to  it.  In 
suffering  one  person  cannot  take  the  place  of  an- 
other, and  pain  cannot  be  shared.  The  first  day, 
because  grief  turns  your  head,  you  think  you  are 
sharing  the  other  person's  pain,  but  the  other 
days,  all  the  other  days? 

Why  not  have  the  courage  to  look  crude  reality 
crudely  in  the  face?  There  are  no  people  who  are 
inseparable,  there  are  no  couples  who  are  insepar- 
able. 

He  is  in  the  trenches,  the  men  are  in  the 
trenches,  engulfed  in  misery,  exposed  to  danger, 
plagued  by  vermin,  and  I  am  here  alive  and  un- 
touched, grazing  this  large  wall  patched  with 
three-colored  placards.  ''Women  .  .  .  your 
noble  role   .    ,    .  noble  work  .    .    .honor  .    .    ." 

Honor?  What  honor?  I  work.  Isn't  that  nat- 
ural? He  is  suffering,  he  is  going  to  die.  Didn't 
I  see  my  own  dormant  energies  wake  up?  And 
if  he  has  given  all,  have  I  not  taken  all? 

Five  minutes  to  nine !  I  hurry,  raising  my  coat 
collar  in  a  shiver  and  clasping  my  hands  inside 
my  soft  muff. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  a  dusty  gust  driving  a 
handful  of  people  along  like  dead  leaves,  women 
with  billowing  skirts,  a  tramping,  whistling  gang 
of  blue-lipped  street  boys,  and  old  Noel  with  his 
breath  frozen  on  his  beard. 

They  have  left.  Even  if  they  return,  they  have 
left.  That's  the  whole  thing.  There  will  have 
been  a  space  of  time  when  they  were  wiped  off  the 


168  WOMAN 

face  of  the  earth,  and  life  went  forward  without 
them,  was  lived  without  them,  and  women  act- 
ually cotitinued  without  them.  .    .   . 


IV 


The  typical  young  lover,  well  built,  good-looking 
enough  but  without  charm ;  his  youthfulness  armed 
with  a  timid  pretentiousness.  I  had  always 
avoided  talking  to  him,  but  this  evening  he  got 
hold  of  a  foolish  excuse  for  walking  home  with 
me.  I  tried  hard  to  speak  of  something  else  and 
quickly  switched  the  conversation  on  to  another 
track  when  it  took  a  certain  turn,  while  he,  a  hun- 
dred times  more  proficient  than  I,  certainly  more 
obstinate,  dragged  the  subject  back  to  where  he 
wanted  it  to  be. 

The  eternal  comedy  of  man.  The  same  words 
— who  will  tell  them  that  they  always  use  the  same 
words? — to  reach  the  same  goal.  He  made  awk- 
ward, crafty  attempts,  watching  me  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye,  and  when  he  saw  I  was  escaping, 
he  declared  himself,  throwing  up  his  dice  and 
staking  his  very  heart.  His  voice  was  rusty,  his 
nose  pointed  downward,  his  ears  were  fiery. 

Until  then  he  had  seemed  fatuous,  almost  ridic- 
ulous in  his  little  perfidy.  Now  he  was  ennobled, 
like  a  saint,  pure,  supplicating.  His  whole  body 
took  on  grandeur.  How  he  trembled,  the  poor 
boy! 

"When  my  answer  was  given — a  woman  who 


BECOMING  169 

doesn't  love  has  a  lot  of  ease  and  gentleness  at 
her  command — "Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "I  have 
offended  you." 

I  watched  him  as  he  walked  away,  his  back  bent, 
humiliated,  I  suppose,  but  bathed  all  the  same  in 
the  hope  that  rises  from  the  words  you  dare  to 
utter. 

Forgive  him !  As  if  any  woman  ever  harbored 
bitter  feelings  against  the  man  who  gave  her  the 
great  gift,  as  if  a  single  one  of  us,  ever  remained 
untouched,  as  if  a  mysterious  yet  positive  connec- 
tion did  not  establish  itself  the  moment  love  was 
declared. 

I  remember  all  the  men  who  ever  loved  me. 
Each  thinks  he  has  discovered  you,  and  offers  you 
your  secret.  Each  does  in  fact  discover  you,  and 
also  kisses  you  a  little. 

I  shall  remember  this  young  man,  too ;  I  shall 
remember  the  strip  of  mackerel  sky  showing  above 
the  street  crossing;  I  shall  remember  the  stam- 
mering mouth  whose  youth  demanded  its  satisfac- 
tion from  mine,  the  mouth  that  touched  mine  in 
thought. 


I  have  had  the  sensation  of  death. 

Not  in  the  instant  of  dying;  that  is  still  a  part 
of  life ;  but  in  the  instant  after  death. 

I  had  gone  to  the  end  of  the  pier,  where  the 
water  lashes  incessantly  and  regularly,  and  seated 
myself  facing  the  open  sea.    To  right  and  left  the 


170  WOMAN 

green  shore  curved  and  the  fir-trees  ran  down 
toward  the  sea  to  hold  in  the  pale  sandy  strip 
edged  with  foam.  Over  my  head  the  procession 
of  clouds. 

Sunday  morning.  The  voice  of  the  chimes  from 
the  old  church,  buried  in  the  heart  of  the  island, 
was  music  sent  by  the  air  and  tinted  blue  by  the 
waters.  At  each  stroke  you  expected  to  see  space 
divided  in  two. 

The  sea  was  smooth  and  sleek  with  dark,  wide, 
winding  oily  tracks,  which  looked  like  roadways 
traced  by  the  sure  finger  of  God. 

Looking  down  at  my  feet  I  saw  a  sparkling  play 
of  meshes  of  rainbow  light.  The  iris  fragments 
dented  the  surface,  formed  into  chains,  made  a 
covering  of  diamond  facets,  and  drew  downward 
full  rainbows  resting  on  myriads  of  arches.  It 
was  an  incessant  disappearance  and  reappear- 
ance. 

It  was  fascinating  to  watch.  The  only  thing 
that  distracted  me  was  a  swarm  of  miniature  fish 
darting  under  the  pier  more  lightly  than  insects. 
For  a  moment  they  showed  dove-colored,  then 
orange;  then  they  melted  away.  You  tried  to 
fasten  your  eyes  upon  one  of  the  cells  of  water, 
just  one.  You  had  it,  but  no,  it  was  another 
one. 

The  sun  was  so  hot  you  couldn't  lift  your  head. 
A  broad  sunbeam  falling  perpendicularly  on  the 
hard  surface  of  the  sea  cut  it  in  a  blinding  fissure, 
which  attached  the  foot  of  the  pier  to  the  horizon. 

Caught  between  the  heat  pouring  down  from 


BECOMING  171 

the  heavens  and  the  freshness  rising  from  the 
water,  my  body  lost  its  sense  of  weight,  form, 
equilibrium,  and  even  of  breathing.  Every  bit 
of  feeling  was  gone  from  my  legs,  my  neck  was 
burning.  My  soul  and  eyes  existed  for  nothing 
except  the  stable  yet  ever-changing  mosaic  which 
laughed  a  thousand  laughs  at  the  face  of  the  sky. 

There  was  nothing  but  light.  Substance,  eyes, 
body,  memories,  all  seemed  to  be  losing  themselves 
and  making  a  plunge  into  light. 

There  really  was  one  moment  in  which  I  ceased 
to  be.  My  existence  underwent  a  momentary 
eclipse.  I  was  no  longer  some  one  obstinately  fac- 
ing a  realm  of  infinity  in  order  to  measure  its 
limits,  a  very  small  creature  who  wanted  to  add 
herself  to  nature.  I  was  the  immense,  permeat- 
ing idea  of  the  ocean,  the  sun  and  the  sky. 

It  was  between  the  singing  ether  and  the  sil- 
very water  that  I  seemed  to  foresee  my  nothing- 
ness, because  when  consciousness  left  me  and  I 
ceased  to  be,  the  sparkling  eyes  of  the  sea  formed 
again,  the  blue  oily  tracks  unfurled  themselves, 
the  glittering  fissure  sucked  in  the  same  line,  the 
blue  deep  followed  its  unchanging  course.  Every- 
thing kept  on  behind  me. 


VI 

Nothing  but  women.   .    .    . 

Not  a  single  pretty  one.  Two,  four,  ten,  a  hun- 
dred .  .  .  there  must  be  two  hundred.  .  .  . 
Not  a  single  pretty  one.   .    .    . 


172  WOMAN 

To  be  snre,  the  weak  unsteady  light  discolors 
their  faces  and  throws  drab  blotches  around  their 
features,  but  that  alone  does  not  account  for  the 
general  stamp  of  dullness  which  makes  them  seem 
like  a  flock  of  widows.  The  two  men  sitting  apart 
on  the  crosswise  bench  like  well-behaved  children 
who  have  just  been  punished,  have  a  sorry  air, 
not  at  all  the  air  of  having  done  it  on  purpose. 

I  am  impatient.  A  woman  addressing  other 
women.  .  .  .  What  is  she  going  to  tell  us  ?  "Will 
the  audience  brighten  up? 

I  am  standing  with  my  back  to  the  platform  fac- 
ing the  door  to  keep  watch  for  Eva  for  whom  I 
am  reserving  a  seat  beside  my  own.  .  .  .  Alas, 
something  for  a  merciless  eye  to  feed  upon!  I 
can  hardly  bear  to  look  at  that  uncultivated  field 
of  dingy  heads.  But  there  is  nothing  better  to 
turn  to — moldy  walls  picked  at  and  peeling, 
smeary  stains  on  a  colorless  floor.  Your  ears  are 
pierced  by  a  rising  babel. 

Eva  at  last.  ...  I  draw  a  breath  of  relief 
and  feel,  as  I  always  do,  like  saying  "Thank  you" 
to  her.  Great  floodgates  open,  my  poise  is  re- 
stored— a  living  proof.  .  .  .  Why  this  blitheness? 
Because  of  her  smile,  her  radiance,  her  frankness, 
the  glory  she  carries  about  with  her  from  the 
clear  image  of  her  child  and  husband?  I  do  not 
know.  She  exists,  that's  all.  When  I  think  of 
her,  I  have  a  complete  sense  of  happiness  and 
confidence.   .    .    .     Perhaps  this  is  friendship. 

She  has  a  little  trouble  making  her  way  through 
the  hall.    Her  head,  set  in  velvet,  rises  above  the 


.     BECOMING  173 

field  of  heads  like  a  taller,  brighter  stalk;  the 
precious  gems  of  her  eyes  show  in  full.  She  sees 
me,  her  face  brightens.  .  .  .  ''Thank  you,"  I 
say,  very  low  just  to  myself.  After  all  there  will 
be  one  fine  face  in  the  room. 

We  had  scarcely  shaken  hands  and  seated  our- 
selves when  silence  fell,  broken  here  and  there  by 
coughing. 

The  speech. 

The  woman  making  the  speech  is  also  ugly.  Yet 
what  resources  in  that  ample  body.  Under  the 
armor  of  her  corset,  there  are  fine,  noble  lines,  I 
am  sure.  Under  her  sausage  sleeves  there  are  the 
arms  of  a  mother,  even  perhaps  of  a  woman  in 
love;  the  huge  pancake  on  the  nape  of  her  neck 
shows  she  has  long  shining  hair  silky  to  the  touch ; 
and  what  tenderness  in  the  depth  of  her  eyes 
which  dart  glances  in  our  direction.  If  she  dared, 
what  sweetness.   .    .    . 

She  came  to  speak  to  us  from  a  platform  for 
the  purpose  of  conveying  her  idea  and  a  little  of 
her  soul,  unaware  that  a  valiant  soul  is  a  visible 
soul.  The  only  means  we  have  of  showing  our 
souls,  sharing  them  and  giving  them  freedom,  are 
the  ordinary  means — our  actions,  the  bare  flesh 
of  our  lips,  the  sincere  tears  of  our  eyes,  our  bodies 
which  encase  our  souls,  our  smiles  which  beautify 
our  souls,  and  our  voices.   . 

This  woman's  soul  is  a  strained  voice,  but  how 
marvellous.  The  rows  in  the  audience  remain  sta- 
tionary, each  head  staying  fixed  in  the  position  it 
held  at  the  first  word  she  uttered. 


174  WOMAN 

The  "women's  horrid  caxes,  their  marketing, 
their  husbands,  their  children,  their  dishwashing, 
their  difficulty  in  making  ends  meet,  all  the  every- 
day trifles  that  weigh  on  women  and  enslave  them, 
are  driven  far  away.  The  pale  blonde  with  faded 
eyes  beside  Eva  probably  made  the  same  0  of  her 
mouth  when  she  spelled  out  her  letters  as  a  child. 
The  old  woman  nodding  ''Yes,  yes" — the  two 
jDlumes  in  her  bonnet  respond  **Yes,  yes" — ^has 
forgotten  her  stupid  drudgery. 

They  are  all  stamped  with  a  sort  of  pathetic 
imprint ;  love  is  their  element,  their  strength,  their 
medium.  They  listen  with  love  and  understand 
through  love.  Love  gives  them  this  serious,  fixed 
attentiveness. 

The  woman  with  the  burning  insignia  of  her 
stove  on  her  fiery  cheeks  has  lost  all  traces  of 
worry  except  for  the  scolding  expression  of  the 
mother  whom  you  imagine  with  a  horde  of  chil- 
dren jumping  round  her  like  little  rabbits.  And 
the  thin  girl  with  the  dusky  gaze — we've  all  seen 
her  kneeling  in  the  shadow  of  a  confessional 
mumbling  her  sins  with  her  mouth  glued  to  a 
wooden  grating  from  the  other  side  of  which 
comes  the  warm  breath  of  a  man  without  a  face — 
what  ardor  she,  too,  is  capable  of! 

Instead  of  the  voice  of  the  speaker  on  the  plat- 
form it  is  the  women's  outcries  that  I  hear. 

These  women  have  been  imprisoned  by  them- 
selves, hampered  by  their  own  lives,  and  what 
lives !  what  a  miserable  heap  of  desires  and  trou- 
bles in  the  face  of  the  immense  thing  which  gath- 


BECOMING  175 

ers  all  beings  together  and  makes  them  resemble 
one  another,  the  thing  unanimous  and  intangible 
that  I  hardly  see.  I  don't  even  know  its  name. 
Before  it  I  am  like  a  blind  man  who  has  never 
seen  the  sun,  but  suddenly  feels  it  shining  on  his 
forehead  and  exclaims :  ' '  There  is  light ! "  It  is 
this  tiling  that  has  made  all  these  women  come 
here  tonight  and  bestow  their  childish  presence, 
their  somewhat  uncouth  attention,  their  tragic  lips 
which  would  kiss  everji:hing.  Do  they  feel  the 
great  current  rising  from  them  which  seeks  to  be 
caught  and  held  fast,  a  current  altogether  new  in 
the  human  atmosphere?  .    .    .     Not  yet.    Not  yet. 

How  subdued  Eva  looks ;  her  gaze  seems  clipped 
short;  she's  frowning.  Her  expression  makes  me 
uncomfortable. 

Hands  flutter  like  white  leaves ;  a  bow  from  the 
platform;  the  meeting  is  over. 

The  auditors  stretch  themselves  a  little,  then 
rise  to  the  accompaniment  of  clattering  benches, 
gossamer  sighs,  and  the  somid  of  two  hundred 
bodies  moving  and  coming  back  to  themselves.  A 
faint  cackling,  then  a  full  chorus  of  barnyard 
noises  mounting  and  spreading. 

I  plant  myself  up  against  the  wall  to  let  them 
pass  and  see  who  will  cast  thorny  glances  at  my 
hat,  dress  and  shoes. 

''Come  on,"  cries  Eva.  Her  forehead  is  dra\vn 
in  hard  lines.    ''Come  on." 

Outside,  the  night  blowing  upon  the  parting 
groups  of  women  gives  their  scattered  voices  re- 
sonance. 


176  WOMAN 

Eva  takes  my  arm  .  .  .  but  no,  I  feel  like 
being  by  myself.  I  repel  her  bluntly,  as  you  throw 
aside  a  branch  you  have  broken.  She  instinctively 
draws  her  cloak  around  her. 

''What  an  absurd  evening!  Those  women!" 
she  says. 

She  is  right,  I  am  sure.  Every  one  of  the 
women,  it  was  easy  to  see,  was  ugly  and  petty, 
but  together,  multiplied  and  magnified,  their  in- 
dividualities wiped  out,  they  revealed  I  cannot  say 
what  unformed  hope,  what  substance,  what  rich- 
ness.  ...     If  only  I  could  explain  this  to  Eva! 

"Hurry,  hurry,  here  comes  my  street-car! 
Good  night!" 

The  buzzing  of  an  electric  bell,  an  intense  disk 
of  light,  another  buzzing,  and  the  little  illuminated 
house  stops.  With  a  flutter  of  her  skirts  and  a 
wave  of  her  hand,  Eva  disappears. 

Has  she  really  gone?  Goodness,  what  is  she 
carrying  away  with  her?  .    .    . 

In  the  nebulous  depth  of  the  long  avenue  I  can 
still  distinguish  a  vanishing  star  gliding  along  its 
mechanical  path. 

I  had  said :  "Here  is  my  friend,  my  companion, 
my  sister."  On  this  evening,  tender  as  dawn,  she 
has  left  behind  in  me  a  great  emotion  which  she 
does  not  understand. 


BECOMING  177 


VII 


<< 


'A  lady,"  the  fat  concierge  told  me.  *'Been 
here  twice.  Well,  a  sort  of  lady,  a  .  .  .  yon  un- 
derstand. Her  cheeks — her  skirt — yon  can  see 
her  legs  np  to  here.  .  .  .  Believe  me  or  don't 
believe  me,  but  she 's  twin  pea  to  your  Marie.  If 
she  comes  back,  what  shall  I  tell  her?  I  won't 
let  that  sort  into  my  house !    Eh  ?    Kick  her  out  ? ' ' 

^  *  Oh  but,  M.  Etienne,  I  am  at  home  today.  Let 
her  come  up." 

I  closed  my  door  blushing. 

Through  the  banisters  I  recognized  her.  Act- 
ually Marie ! 

*^Come  in.   .    .    . " 

She  went  in  ahead  of  me  to  the  dining-room — ■ 
''my  dining-room,"  she  used  to  call  it — and  seated 
herself  deliberately.  Genuine  timidity  hides  itself 
behind  a  mask  of  absurd  audacity. 

''Marie  .    .    .  Marie   .    .    .  is  it  possible?" 

She  was  wearing  a  large  red  straw  hat  turned 
up  at  one  side  and  weighted  down  on  the  other 
side  by  a  nodding  mass  of  huge  black  plumes,  two 
tall  elastic  antennae,  the  sort  worn  by  horses 
drawing  hearses.  Under  the  chalky  enamel  yon 
couldn't  see  her  freckles,  but  her  eyes,  her  lovely 
eyes  of  purest  aquamarine,  with  glints  of  indigo 
from  her  blackened  lashes,  still  retained  their 
dewy  look  of  astonishment. 

Here  was  Marie.    At  last  I  was  going  to  know 


178  WOMAN 

why  she  was  so  mute  and  why  she  ran  away  one 
evening  without  taking  along  her  bundle  of  clothes 
or  her  prayer-book.  I  was  going  to  find  out  how 
a  poor  little  servant  girl  rebelling  against  kind- 
ness could  become  a  poor  little  swaggering  over- 
dressed prostitute. 

**I  have  come  for  my  things." 

*'They  are  still  here,  Marie;  I'll  go  and  get 
them. '  * 

But  I  couldn't  budge.  This  phenomenon  com- 
ing so  close  to  me  was  appalling.  I  looked  at  her. 
She  had  the  soft,  awkward  charm  of  a  little  aston- 
ished beast.  Seated  there  in  my  presence  she 
made  an  ingenuous,  piteous  sight,  like  a  ladybird 
you're  afraid  of  crushing,  or  a  wilful  timid  lamb 
withdrawing  from  your  caress. 

I  noticed  all  sorts  of  minutiae — that  she  carried 
a  cloth  hand-bag,  an  exact  copy  of  a  bag  of  mine, 
and  tied  her  shoe-latchets  the  very  same  way  I 
did  mine ;  was  very  neat,  her  shoes  polished,  her 
hands  clean,  her  neck  fairly  waxed  with  soap.  Her 
gaze,  once  aimless  and  imprisoned,  harpooned  the 
things  in  my  room  and  withdrew  freighted  with 
discoveries.  .  .  .  And  she  gave  me  acid,  persistent 
looks  like  the  looks  one  woman  gives  another. 
''Has  she  aged?"  her  looks  questioned,  "has 
she  changed,  is  she  prettier?"  Her  eyes  roved 
around  the  room.  ''Ah,  that  little  etagere  was 
not  there  in  my  time,  nor  that  engraving.  .  .  . 
Who's  doing  her  work?  The  place  looks  well 
kept."  She  parted  the  collar  of  her  jacket  at  the 
opening  to  show  off  her  imitation  brooch.    The 


BECOMING  179 

child  had  become  feminized,  she  seemed  older  than 
ever. 

''Why,  Marie?    Why?" 

I  couldn't  restrain  myself  any  longer.  She 
leaned  her  elbow  on  the  table.  When  she  raised 
her  eyes,  they  were  underlined  with  red  and  two 
slow  tears  cut  little  pathways  down  the  powder 
on  her  cheeks.    I  jumped  up  and  took  her  hands. 

"I  didn't  like — I  didn't  know  Avhat  to  do  with 
myself.  It  wasn't  my  fault.  No  one  cared  about 
me.   ..." 

The  great  answer  to  the  riddle.  They  all  have 
this  devouring  need.  What  they  ask  of  love  and 
look  for  in  love  is  ''someone  to  care  about  them." 

"And  then  my  hair,  my  Breton  dress  .  .  . 
everybody  stared  at  me.  *  Aren't  you  ashamed"?' 
I  used  to  think." 

Another  need — to  be  like  other  people,  to  be 
just  as  good  as  anyone  else — why  not? — to  have 
a  bag  like  madam  and  hats  like  the  hats  you  see 
on  the  street.   .    .    . 

"That's  all,"  she  added. 

It  was  all.  When  women  sell  themselves,  it  is 
not  poverty  necessarily  that  drives  them  to  it.  You 
don't  know  the  hell  of  jealousy  that  burns  in  all 
of  us.  There  are  some  women  who  make  them- 
selves beautiful  less  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  men 
than  for  annoying  other  women. 

"You  must  be  unhappy." 
/'Yes,  ma'am." 

Is  a  poor  little  thing  like  Marie  sensual?  Women 
are  rarely  sensual.  If  they  are,  they  have  not  been 
so  from  the  start;  they  have  become  so. 


180  WOMAN 

Her  Breton  accent  came  back.  ''Madam,"  she 
said  in  her  singsong  of  four  years  ago  and  in  the 
same  servile  tone.  Now  she  felt  like  relieving 
herself  and  telling  me  everything.  There  was  one 
man  who  really  didn't  disgust  her,  but  he  was  at 
the  front,  and  if  only  he  could  come  back!  In 
the  meantime  she  practiced  economies  and  per- 
haps they  could  fix  up  a  home  and  perhaps  he 
would  marry  her.  But  if  he  did  not  come  back, 
then—" 

I  had  been  to  blame,  I  alone.  I  had  been  satis- 
fied to  deplore  her  grim  silence  and  do  nothing. 
But  I  ought  to  have  humiliated  myself  so  as  to 
earn  her  smile.  I  ought  by  talking  to  her  to  have 
driven  out  of  her  heart  the  longing  to  equal  and 
surpass  which  prevents  us  all  from  being  human 
sisters.    I  should  have.   .    .    . 

We  are  all  to  blame  for  the  prostitutes,  we  are 
the  ones  at  whom  the  stones  should  be  cast. 
Nearly  all  of  them  are  little  Maries  with  the  crav- 
ing for  just  one  man,  the  peaceful  healthy  desire 
for  a  secure  hearth,  but  we  tolerate  poverty,  and 
we  don't  know  how  to  talk  to  each  other. 

She  put  her  package  under  her  arm.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  I  went  up  to  her,  humble  of 
heart,  and  rather  awkwardly  kissed  her  cheek 
streaked  by  tears  and  sullied  by  paint. 

She  started,  shaken  by  a  revulsion.  The  liquid 
blue  of  her  eyes  turned  sharp  and  aggressive,  her 
lips  narrowed;  she  held  her  little  bag  close  like 
booty.    Then  she  departed,  leaving  the  door  open 


BECOMING  181 

for  the  smoky  darkness  of  the  landing  to  creep 
into  my  rooms.  She  had  the  untamable,  sullen 
expression  of  a  hunted  beast. 


VIII 

Twenty  days  passed  without  news. 

"When  I  woke  up,  the  early  sunlight  had  a  re- 
assuring effect,  the  morning  chattered  familiarly, 
my  terror  of  the  night  before  took  wings  like  a 
fancy.     Hope  swelled  within  me. 

The  postman's  ring,  sharp,  strident,  unbear- 
able, reopened  the  wound.  I  rushed  to  the  door. 
Nothing.  A  circular,  an  ordinary  letter  which  I 
didn't  have  the  will  to  open. 

It  was  exactly  twenty-two  days.  I  forced  my- 
self to  sit  down  at  the  table,  but  my  courage  was 
completely  gone,  and  the  alarms  of  the  night  which 
haunted  the  room  gripped  me  by  the  throat.  Well, 
there  would  be  something  tomorrow.  It  was  im- 
possible.  .    .    . 

Anxiety,  from  the  moment  it  began,  made  me 
neglect  myself — no  prinking,  no  housework,  dust 
powdering  my  furniture.  The  most  I  did  was  to 
turn  back  my  bedclothes.  Wliat  did  all  these 
things  matter?    I  wanted  to  sleep,  sleep.   .    .    . 

Coming  back  from  work  I  slipped  into  my  flan- 
nel dressing  gown  and  slippers  and  let  down  my 
hair.  I  did  not  even  take  the  time  to  warm  up  my 
dinner  prepared  beforehand  in  the  morning.    The 


1S2  WOMAN 

plate  was  on  the  table,  an  orange,  a  piece  of  bread. 
...     I'd  eat. 

I  couldn't.  The  moutlifuls  choked  me.  I 
couldn't  do  one  thing.  I  was  overwhelmed,  almost 
paralyzed,  by  an  unconquerable  weakness.  I 
threw  myself  in  my  armchair.  I  would  put  the 
room  in  order  the  next  day.  I  would  work  twice 
as  hard,  but  not  tonight.  .    .   . 

Sleep.   .    .    . 

Torpor  gained  complete  possession  of  me.  The 
darkness  gathered,  and  when  the  last  streak  of 
twilight  came  through  the  window  fluttering  on 
my  eyelids,  a  little  hope  returned. 

After  all,  twenty-two  days  was  not  so  terrible. 
Many  people  had  had  to  wait  longer.  Hadn't  I 
had  to  wait  sixteen  days  once?  Letters  get  lost 
on  the  way. 

I  visualized  a  scene — a  hospital  ward,  a  row  of 
beds,  white  coverings,  nurses.  How  was  it  I  had 
not  thought  of  it  before!  Wounded!  ...  A 
slight  wound  which  kept  him  from  writing.  .  .  . 
I  welcomed  the  certainty.  It  was  so  comfort- 
ing that  I  tried  to  hold  on  to  it  by  jumping  right  up 
and  shaking  off  anxiety  and  being  happy.  Anxiety 
is  an  insult  to  love. 

I  groped  for  the  lamp,  turned  on  the  light,  and 
laid  some  reading  matter  on  the  table.  The  dis- 
order was  dismal  but — tomorrow  was  another 
day.    I  sat  down  to  read. 

The  lines  leapt  at  my  eyes.  You'd  have  thought 
them  an  army  of  ants  running  over  the  page,  run- 
ning, yet  always  remaining  at  the  same  place. 


BECOMING  183 

Should  I  try  to  work?  Should  I  try  to  make  up  a 
package  for  him?  That  would  be  two  packages 
this  week,  but  two  are  not  a  whole  lot. 

My  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  The  door-bell 
rang.  Who  could  it  be  at  this  hour?  My  very 
life  went  round  in  a  whirlwind,  1  flew  to  the  door. 

Some  one  in  black  shrinking  in  the  dark  door- 
way in  the  humble  attitude  of  a  sister  of  charity 
requesting  alms  for  the  poor.    My  aunt  Finot ! 

I  murmured  a  few  little  hypocrisies  and  put  up 
my  hair.  I  was  fuming  inwardly,  although  act- 
ually a  little  relieved  at  the  prospect  of  a  visit, 
which  even  if  tedious  would  mean  a  human  pres- 
ence, a  tangible  certainty.  I  was  so  upset  I  came 
near  saying  *'Tante  Finot"  and  giving  away  the 
nickname  by  which  she  had  been  called  in  the  fam- 
ily for  twenty  years. 

"Come  in,  aunt.   .    .    .'* 

She  stepped  in  ahead  of  me,  hunching  up  her 
body.  The  disorder  struck  me  .  .  .  my  home 
was  usually  so  neat  .  .  .  and  my  dressing  gown 
.    .    .  my  run-dowTi  slippers — 

''An  awkward  hour  for  a  visit,  I  know,"  said 
Aunt  Finot,  sitting  down.  ' '  Are  you  feeling  quite 
well,  dear?" 

''Dear"  in  that  mouth  with  lips  like  two  tight- 
drawn  catguts!  It  stabbed  like  a  dagger.  .  .  . 
She  sat  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  chair  twisting 
the  straps  of  her  hand-bag.  The  lamplight  threw 
dusky  shadows  on  her  skeleton  frame  and  turned 
her  eyes  into  the  sharp-gleaming  eyes  of  an  exe- 
cutioner.   My  God  I 


184  WOMAN 

**Has  anything  happened,"  I  asked,  ''anything 
dreadful?" 

"You  see,  dear  .  .  .  don't  get  excited  .  .  . 
listen.  .    .   ." 

"Dead!" 

An  abyss  yawned  at  my  feet,  something  flashed 
and  grazed  my  eyelids.  I  .   .    . 

My  aunt  rose  slowly.  I  saw  her  hands  on  the 
table  knotted  like  a  tangle  of  cords. 

"Don't  get  excited.  Your  family  received  bad 
news,  I  don't  know  from  what  source.  I  asked 
them  if  it  was  official.  They  were  all  half  crazy — 
afraid  to  come  and  tell  you.  ...  I  always  felt 
an  affection  for  you,  you  know.   .    .    .  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand;  he's  dead." 

There  she  still  stood,  her  knotted  hands  on  the 
table,  a  grin  widening  her  flat  features.  There 
she  still  stood. 

"Aunt,  please  leave  me  alone,  please  do." 

Perhaps  she  went  on  talking  a  little,  perhaps 
she  leaned  over  to  kiss  me,  perhaps  I  heard  words 
falling  from  her  lips  like  pellets  of  lead:  "coun- 
try— trial — sacrifice."  The  door  closed  upon  my 
slaughtered  love. 

I  know  I  tried  to  stand  up — it  was  like  trying 
to  lift  a  tombstone — and  drag  myself  to  the  win- 
dow to  lean  my  forehead  on  the  pane ;  but  some- 
thing pulled  at  me  from  deep  within,  something 
cold  and  incomprehensible,  like  a  slimy  slug,  like 
a  deep  gash  in  living  flesh.  And  a  strange  dizzi- 
ness, not  entirely  physical,  threw  me  back  into  the 
armchair. 


BECOMING  185 

The  walls  of  this  black  hissing  pit  into  which 
I  fell  were  the  walls  of  my  dining-room,  the  very 
same  walls  papered  in  a  scallop  design,  and  I  saw 
a  cloud  of  tiny  coal-black  butterflies,  mere  specks, 
whirl  without  end  from  the  blackened  lamp-chim- 
ney. 

My  being  turned  into  something  enormous  and 
gaping,  which  fed  constantly  upon  a  great  wound. 
I  was  so  overwhelmed  with  a  senseless  horror 
that  at  moments  during  the  night  his  death  seemed 
quite  normal  and  natural.  But  when  I  withdrew 
my  hand  from  under  my  head  a  multitude  of  ser- 
pents wriggled  about  within  me,  and  I  felt  suffo- 
cated again  and  began  to  tumble  through  empti- 
ness, while  little  pointed  teeth  bit  my  blood  and 
left  behind  a  penetrating  icy  poison. 

It  has  ever  been  the  same.  Lord  God.  Suffer- 
ing is  too  monotonous.  .  .  .  When  a  bit  of  sense 
and  ordinary  life  returned  and  cried  in  my  ears : 
*'It  is  over.  Never  more,"  I  felt  that  suffering 
is  too  monotonous;  and  when  a  clamor  of  revolt 
sounded  in  my  being:  ''They  have  killed  him  I"  I 
felt  that  suffering  is  too  monotonous. 

And  when  the  dawn  came  tapping  at  the  window 
and  creeping  toward  the  table,  drab  and  livid, 
when  I  rose  from  my  bruised  knees,  and  when 
the  humming  and  buzzing  began  in  the  indifferent 
house,  I  still  felt  that  suffering  is  too  monotonous. 


186  WOMAN 


IX 


Your  beloved  is  dead. 
.  News  that  comes  from  the  depths  of  the  ages 
or  the  depths  of  the  flesh;  you  can't  tell. 

One  day — there — a  clap  of  thunder.  It  bursts 
from  your  flesh  and  tries  to  enter  your  flesh  again. 
It  beats  at  the  portals  of  your  heart,  besieges  your 
ears,  howls  round  your  entrails,  but  there  is  no 
place  for  it,  no  part  of  your  body  wants  it,  your 
soul  retreats  to  shelter,  your  heart  drips  black 
blood,  your  mind  goes  round  and  round.  News, 
News !    Your  beloved  is  dead ! 

No  need  for  the  thunder  to  break.  I  knew  it 
was  brewing  in  me. 

When  we  used  to  come  back  from  work  and  I 
kissed  him  with  this  very  mouth  and  embraced 
him  with  these  very  arms,  pressing  him  so  hard 
that  he  laughed  sometimes,  it  was  premonition  of 
the  News  that  kept  my  lips  sealed  to  his  cheek  so 
long,  and  turned  my  arms  into  iron  clutches,  and 
gave  me  warning  when  I  woke  up,  and  frightened 
me  in  the  dark. 

We  used  to  talk  about  it  and  try  to  imagine  what 
separation  by  death  would  be  like.  ''If  I  die,  if 
you  die."  We  wanted  to  provide  against  it,  we 
had  accepted  it. 

My  beloved,  the  knowledge  of  misfortune  is  not 
the  misfortune  itself;  the  knowledge  of  death  is 
not  death  itself.  When  we  were  together  we  never 
imagined  I  should  suffer  so  much.    When  people 


BECOMING  187 

are  together,  they  can't  imagine  what  it  is  to  be 
alone. 

It  is  like  childbirth  over  again,  I  assure  you: 
I  remember  your  face  when  I  shrieked  in  travail. 
I  am  more  torn  now,  and  you  are  not  here  to  hold 
my  hands. 

Why  do  they  all  say  suffering  is  necessary  and 
eimobling?  I  can  testify  that  suffering  doesn't  do 
any  good. 

I  used  to  be  a  gay,  active  woman,  who  went 
about  with  chest  expanded,  a  body  full  of  pleasure, 
lips  like  kisses,  and  cheeks  alive  mth  color.  I 
used  to  get  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
stay  up  until  late  at  night.  After  the  day's  work 
in  the  evening  I'd  say  "tomorrow"  as  if  antici- 
pating the  loveliest  day  in  the  world.  I  had  pov- 
erty, laughter,  an  appetite,  I  had  a  perfect  union 
with  another,  and  I  maintain  that  this  counts.  I 
led  a  life  according  to  my  o^\ti  will ;  I  had  a  bright 
child.  I  had  all  this,  I  was  all  this,  this  was  my 
lot.   .    .    . 

To-day  I  am  a  woman  whose  eyes  are  swollen 
and  corroded  with  salt  tears,  whose  features  are 
sharpened,  whose  shoulders  stoop,  whose  black 
dress  bags  on  her  reduced  figure,  whose  eyes 
are  turned  inward,  whose  house  is  untidv  and 
whose  evenings  drop  into  darkness  without  the 
lamplight.  My  little  one  has  to  call  me.  .  .  . 
I  love  him  without  a  smile,  and  as  for  myself,  I 
hate  myself. 

I  used  to  try  to  be  kind  and  make  it  pleasant 
for  people  in  my  home.    I  am  like  a  thistle  with- 


188  WOMAN 

ered  on  its  stem,  I  am  like  a  fruit  cut  open  and 
thrown  out  on  the  street.  I  am  useless  and  bitter 
— I  am  bad. 

"When  people  come  to  me,  I  feel  the  pricking  of 
their  thorns,  and  I  waUow  in  gaU.  They  are  all 
enveloped  in  an  awful  respect  for  death.  It  revolts 
me. 

My  family  comes  to  visit  me,  each  one  of  them 
chockful  of  advice  and  dropping  honied  words. 
.  .  .  Yet  I  was  more  worthwhile  when  I  was 
happy.  Why  didn't  they  incline  themselves  when 
there  was  still  time?  They  seem  to  send  up  a  cry 
of  relief.  ''At  last!  You're  suifering!  At  last 
a  person  can  approach  you!"  They  console  me 
and  lull  me;  they  are  crows  quarreling  over  the 
remains  of  a  charnel-house. 

But  when  they  have  the  effrontery  to  extol  his 
virtues,  it  is  too  much;  my  grief  springs  to  the 
attack.  The  idea !  They  hated  him  while  he  lived ! 
Keep  quiet,  don't  insult  him!  I  wish  to  be  alone 
with  the  knowledge  that  he  is  dead. 

But  I  don't  utter  a  word ;  grief  has  lips  of  stone ; 
I  keep  my  secret  locked  within  me  while  seeming 
to  listen  to  them.  I  sit  in  front  of  the  fire,  my 
hair  loose,  my  forehead  drawn,  watching  the 
flames  blaze  and  the  embers  fall.  After  all,  their 
presence,  their  footsteps  pawing  the  silence,  mean 
only  a  little  additional  pain.  Time  passes,  and 
they're  sure  to  go  eventually. 

Has  the  door  closed  on  themf  I  don't  know. 
I  can  hardly  move. 

I  am  alone  with  you,  my  knees  clasped  in  my 


BECOMING  189 

hands,  while  the  castle  in  the  fire  slowly  crumbles 
on  its  gray  dust. 

Some  mourners  at  least  have  the  consolation 
of  mourning  real  dead — real  dead  whom  they  have 
seen  stiffen  into  death,  whose  last  words  they  have 
received,  whose  last  agonies  they  have  tried  to 
soothe,  for  whom  they  have  done  everything  they 
could. 

But  you,  beloved,  are  you  dead!  I  don't  even 
know.  ' '  Fallen  on  the  field  of  honor  % ' '  What  does 
that  mean?  Was  it  in  the  evening  or  the  morn- 
ing? Were  you  alone?  Did  you  cry  out?  Did 
you  suffer  terribly?  Did  you  open  your  eyes  once 
more?  Perhaps  you  couldn't,  perhaps  you  called 
and  called  for  me  ?  Perhaps  you  thought  I  should 
have  come  ?  Ah  yes,  I  should  have  been  there ;  it 
is  my  fault.  I  have  always  cured  you,  you  know 
I  have.  I  simply  had  to  hold  your  head  in  my 
hands  and  your  pain  was  eased. 

But  I  didn't  die — I  didn't  die  at  the  moment  of 
your  death,  that  moment  too  frightful  to  speak  of. 
I  didn't  die  when  life  was  drowned  in  your  mouth. 
We  knew  the  whole  truth  concerning  each  other, 
yet  when  you  were  dying  I  may  have  been  smiling. 

For  fifteen  nights,  fifteen  days,  fifteen  years  my 
heart  has  been  crying  that  you  are  dead  and  that 
it  has  lost  the  hope  of  ever  seeing  you  again  in 
3^our  clothes  exactly  as  you  used  to  look,  with  that 
manner  of  yours.  .  .  .  Fifteen  days  since  I 
have  been  trying  to  learn  again,  begin  all  over 
again,  and  call  everything  into  question  again. 
Fifteen  days  of  impotence.    I  see  only  what  is. 


190  WOMAN 

There  is  earth  on  your  hands,  on  your  eyes,  on 
every  part  of  your  body  wherever  it  may  be. 
Your  feet  are  cold  and  gray  like  the  feet  of  a 
pauper,  your  skin  is  bloated,  worms  are  preying 
upon  you.  I  don't  want  to — I  cannot  see  you  as 
you  are.  When  I  think  of  you  I  have  a  false  vision 
of  your  living  self  with  your  cheeks  of  the  color  of 
life  and  your  dear  natural  gestures.  How  can  I 
help  being  all  bewildered?  Nothing  is  left.  Even 
the  memory  of  you  changes  from  day  to  day.  I 
can  no  longer  recall  the  right  tone  of  your  voice. 
Your  corpse  is  liidden.  It  is  as  if  I  were  suffering 
for  no  reason  at  all. 

Not  to  know  how  to  suffer,  perhaps  that  is  what 
suffering  is.  .  .  .  Not  to  divine  where  you  are, 
is  that  your  death  ? 

The  sparkling  hearth-fire  has  scattered  and 
gone  out.  Fire  has  devoured  fire.  A  few  embers 
reddening  here  and  there,  a  porous  heap  of  fanci- 
ful firebrands. 

And  now,  and  now,  my  beloved,  if  I  no  longer 
see  you,  I  do  see  the  consuming  truth.  I  see  it  and 
here  it  is:  I  let  you  go.  I  consented.  There's 
no  doubt  of  it,  it  was  /  who  killed  you.   .    .    . 


I  felt  a  great  need  for  fresh  air  and  light. 
What  the  nature  of  this  hunger  and  thirst  was  I 
camiot  tell.  .  .  .  The  sunshine  suddenly  lighted 
Tip  the  window-frame.     Its  golden  rays  coming 


BECOMING  191 

through  the  open  easement  and  falling  obliquely 
upon  the  objects  in  my  room  filled  it  with  numer- 
ous fires.    It  was  a  salute. 

To  be  out  of  doors,  to  walk,  to  feel  the  sun  on 
my  skin! 

I  had  a  letter  to  mail.  The  thought  of  it 
brought  me  to  my  feet,  impatient,  ready. 

Should  I  take  the  little  one  along?  But  how 
about  a  good  long  walk,  the  semblance  of  distrac- 
tion? ...  I  decided  to  go  alone. 

With  my  eyes  close  to  the  image  in  the  mirror, 
I  powdered  my  face  and  puffed  my  hair  on  each 
side  under  my  hat  as  I  used  to  do.  How  the  least 
prinking  helps  a  woman!  Instead  of  the  really 
ugly  pointed  little  face  smeared  with  pallor,  which, 
without  arousing  my  shame,  had  visibly  length- 
ened these  past  weeks,  there  was  a  face  of  warm, 
even  whiteness  and  of  an  oval  not  so  pronounced, 
eyes  which,  even  if  dark-rimmed,  had  lost  their 
fixity,  and  a  shower  of  red  tendrils  like  coppery 
breaths  blown  on  my  forehead. 

The  early  spring  was  making  itself  felt.  A  raw 
wind  was  raising  the  dust  of  the  streets.  Assailed 
at  the  first  step  by  the  blue,  dancing,  swirling  air, 
I  walked  falteringly,  like  a  prisoner  who  has  just 
been  released  and  doesn't  know  where  to  turn. 

Everything  the  same.  The  old  bridge  still 
stretching  its  badly  joined  planks  from  the  paved 
street  to  the  road  where  the  wistaria  bloomed. 
The  patched,  mossy  roof,  of  the  old  wash-house  a 
few  steps  from  the  mill  still  displaying  its  dog's- 
eared  edges.  The  same  vistas  across  the  green 
breaches  between  the  houses. 


192  WOMAN 

Every  corner  of  tlie  town  held  out  a  memory  to 
me — here  a  two-year-old  memory,  here  a  distinct 
vision  crouching.  I  called  to  the  vision  and  wel- 
comed it.  My  life  was  not  dead,  and  my  heart  was 
open  and  there  was  still  a  man  to  love  me.   .    .    . 

I  had  been  unjust  in  the  black  moment  of  des- 
pair. My  share  of  love  and  light  still  remained. 
Did  he  know  I  was  a  widow?  Since  he  had  been 
taken  prisoner  six  months  ago,  no  news  had 
reached  me  and  I  didn't  know  if  he  had  received 
any  of  my  letters. 

The  broad  sunshine  expanded  my  chest  and 
warmed  up  a  vision  so  tender — a  hope  or  a  mem- 
ory— that  I  was  stung  by  a  pang  of  remorse  and 
almost  felt  like  chasing  it  away. 

I  reached  the  center  of  the  town,  where  there 
were  more  people  and  especially  more  well-to-do 
people. 

Feminine  figures,  which  I  recognized,  came 
toward  me  at  a  dull  gait.  I  knew  them ;  I  had  seen 
these  old  ladies  at  prayers  two  years  before. 
They  wore  the  same  dresses  and  the  same  hats, 
the  sort  you  don't  see  anywhere  except  in  the 
provinces.  .  .  .  Hypocritical  hands  as  I  passed 
the  houses,  lifted  the  crocheted  curtains.  I  was 
preceded  by  mystery  and  followed  by  whisperings. 

Every  passerby  seemed  to  be  blaming  me  for  the 
dazzling  sunlight  which  my  eyes  were  embracing; 
every  house  scowled,  and  the  whole  street,  in  spite 
of  the  pleasant  weather,  wore  veritable  mourning, 
not  mere  sadness  and  solemnity,  but  mourning. 


BECOMING  193 

and  the  people  looked  as  though  they  were  in  a 
slow  funeral  procession,  the  women  strangled  in 
black,  upholstered  in  crepe,  and  buried  alive  in 
their  hoods  and  veils. 

The  Cathedral  square  was  resplendent  with 
profane  joy.  The  birds  swooped  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  great,  white-dappled  plane-trees,  and 
every  now  and  then  one  perched  on  the  statue  in 
the  fountain,  a  clumsy  girl  with  petticoat  of  stone 
and  tumed-up  sleeves,  a  decent  bosom  bared,  a 
sheaf  in  one  arm,  and  an  eternally  dried-up  urn 
in  the  other  arm.  Through  its  high  lanceolate 
windows  and  the  tracery  of  the  two  rose-windows 
Notre  Dame  was  drinking  in  light  and  making 
mock  of  its  ancient  front. 

It  was  a  brilliant  day,  and  the  world  rejoiced. 
I  tasted  the  savor  of  living.  In  spite  of  myself 
I  fell  into  the  ner\^ous,  elastic  step  of  old  and 
drank  in  the  living  air  like  an  intoxicating  elixir. 

An  idea  took  lodgment — he  was  familiar  with 
this  scene,  these  crabbed  shops,  hostile  promen- 
aders,  and  square  of  bourgeoning;  he  had  walked 
on  these  cobblestones ;  and  at  the  edge  of  the  town 
was  his  little  summer  villa.  The  idea  went  round 
and  round,  very  fast;  and  I  was  weak;  so  I 
clutched  at  it  for  support. 

Another  veiled  woman  in  black.   .    ,    . 

That  figure  tending  to  heaviness  but  graceful 
and  in  the  very  mould  of  femininity  is  not  unfam- 
iliar.    I  have  seen  the  woman  before.    You  can 


194  WOMAN 

tell  from  a  distance  that  she  wears  the  mark  of 
the  widow,  a  hood-like  hat  faced  with  white. 

She  too ;  .  .  . 

I  am  interested  in  her.  In  the  country  yon  are 
interested  in  everybody  yon  meet. 

Who  is  she,  I  wonder.  She  seems  to  be  about 
forty,  but  neither  her  hair  nor  her  cheeks  have 
lost  their  freshness.    Wlio.  .  .   . 

My  heart  bursts,  alarm  comes  rushing,  mis- 
fortune approaches.  .  .  .  She  walks  toward  me 
— she  is  only  a  few  feet  away.  ...  If  she  would 
only  stop  .   .   .  it  is  she  .   .  .  his  wife ! 

In  the  time  it  takes  to  walk  only  a  few  feet  you 
can  undergo  the  acutest  agony.  I  held  my  breath 
and  for  a  second  time  felt  death  strike  me  with  its 
thunderbolt,    I  had  time  to  become  a  widow  too. 

She  advanced  terribly :  it  was  death  advancing 
along  the  sidewalk,  I  felt  I  must  detain  and  im- 
plore her.  With  jaws  set  I  restrained  a  great 
con^oilsive  outcry  and  flung  myself  in  her  way. 
,  .  .  My  lips  gave  a  sort  of  cluck.  .  .  .  She 
fixed  her  eyes  straight  ahead  and  turned  away 
deliberately  as  if  from  a  drunken  beggar. 

I  looked  and  looked  after  her.   .    .    . 

She  departs — forever — her  skirt  grazing  the 
ground.  Her  veil  carries  away  the  remnant  of 
^y  joy,  leaving  me  there  stupefied  and  convulsed, 
alone  under  the  sun.    She  departs.   .    .    . 

My  God!   .... 


BECOMING  195 


XI 

My  son  is  growing  up. 

He  has  reddish-brown  ringlets,  his  cheeks  are 
vermilion,  the  blue  of  his  eyes  radiates  seraphic 
calm.  He  is  probably  going  to  be  very  handsome. 
Often  people  stop  me  on  the  street  to  tell  me  how 
lovely  he  is,  and  for  a  moment  I  feel  some  pride. 

He  is  beginning  to  show  human  traits ;  he  talks, 
he  expresses  a  desire  to  touch  and  possess  things, 
and  likes  to  listen  to  stories,  which  used  to  make 
no  appeal:  ''And  then.  Mamma?  Tell  me,  what 
next!   ..."    I  always  begin  by  kissing  him. 

My  heart  has  growni  with  him.  I  have  just 
begun  to  feel  that  his  existence  is  rooted  in  my 
o^\^l  existence.  What  welds  me  to  him  are  not 
only  the  pains  I  take  for  him,  or  my  perpetual 
anxiety.  I  am  welded  to  him  by  the  kisses  he 
already  gives  me.  Wlien  he  says  ''Mamma"  in 
his  inimitable  way,  I  am  proud  and  overwhelmed ; 
when  he  puts  his  arms  round  my  neck,  it  is  as  if 
I  were  usurping  a  reward  too  perfect  for  me. 

The  terror  with  which  he  filled  me  when  he  was 
so  little  and  frail  is  disappearing.  I  have  rocked 
him,  watched  over  him  and  suckled  him;  he  has 
strong  legs  and  a  strong  body;  nevertheless  a 
much  greater  terror  is  growing  in  me. 

The  greatest  terror  of  my  like.  To  bring  up  a 
child,  to  hold  in  your  hands  not  only  what  he  will 
be,  but  what  he  may  be ;  and  to  decree  everything, 
the  colors  he  looks  at,  the  words  he  hears!    To 


196  WOMAN 

give  birth  a  second  time  to  a  living  creature.  To 
be  worthy  of  it.   .    .    . 

And  to  have  nothing  to  help  you  but  a  heart 
wise  yet  too  intellectual,  the  heart  of  an  adult. 

To  have  this  timid  heart,  the  maternal  heart, 
too  prompt  and  misleading. 

Not  to  have  anything  else ! 


XII 


I  was  sitting  on  the  grass  beside  the  rugged, 
windswept  path  which  follows  the  curve  of  the 
sea.  Instinctively  I  straightened  up  out  of  my 
careless  attitude  into  the  attitude  of  a  woman  in 
danger. 

He  is  coming  closer,  he  is  very  near.   .    .    . 

He  forces  himself  to  assume  the  indifferent,  I 
don 't-know-you  air  of  some  one  happening  to  be 
passing  by,  but  he  shortens  his  strides,  and  in  spite 
of  himself  his  face  dilates  and  beams  with  the 
delight  of  the  hunter  striking  the  trail.  A  little 
more,  and  he'd  let  out  a  whistle. 

Should  I  try  to  escape  through  the  woods  by 
cutting  across  the  railroad  track!  Should  I?  .  .  . 

''How  do  you  do?" 

"How  do  you  do?" 

The  man  is  handsome,  decidedly  handsome, 
even  in  the  full  light,  and  I  smile  at  his  coming  as 
I  smiled  a  few  moments  ago  when  the  sun  climbed 
over  the  slope. 

I  had  always  seen  him  in  the  dusk  when  he  re- 


BECOMING  197 

turned  to  his  smart  white  house  held  fast  in  a  coil 
of  green.  He  would  stop  a  moment  at  the  rusty 
gate  and  give  me  a  lingering  glajice  out  of  his  long- 
lashed  eyes.  Yesterday  evening  when  we  passed 
each  other  on  the  road,  his  eyes  were  like  black 
enamel,  but  now  in  the  bare  light  of  the  morning 
they  are  of  a  more  crystalline  gray  than  the  sea. 

A  tragic  duel  of  looks.  ...  a  thousand  ques- 
tions asked  and  answered  .  .  .  wonderful  un- 
derstanding .  .  .  dizziness  .  .  .  unbearable 
dizziness. 

He  stands  balancing  himself  on  his  feet  search- 
ing the  ground  for  the  nascent  lie.  Then  he  puts 
a  direct,  confident  question — is  this  magnificent 
weather  going  to  last?  I  in  my  turn  dissemble 
and  scrutinize  the  silent,  motionless  horizon. 

Safe !  Hypocrisy  between  us.  He  has  found  a 
suitable  topic  and  exploits  it  cleverly  in  jerky 
little  phrases,  rather  sensual,  like  the  kisses  you 
give  a  child.  He  points  his  three-cornered  head 
at  me  and  tosses  back  his  thick  black  mane. 

He  shuffles  his  feet.  ''Answer  me,"  beg  the 
glittering  eyes.  "Answer  me.  ...  I  am  asking 
you  a  question.   .    .    . " 

No,  I  don't  want  to  answer.  A  word  thrown  out 
now  and  then  with  the  fervent  assurance  one  al- 
ways has  under  a  desirous  gaze ;  also  the  defensive 
attitude  men  force  upon  you.  I  lean  over  and 
begin  to  pluck  the  rich  grass  methodically,  pro- 
ducing a  fine,  fresh  scent  and  the  dry,  peaceful 
sound  of  a  browsing  beast.     Two  bare  spots  in 


198  WOMAN 

the  velvety  slope  and  several  light  blades  zigzag- 
ging in  the  wind.    .    .    . 

Will  he  go? 

He  understands.  His  chest  collapses  like  a  pair 
of  bellows  and  he  draws  his  two  long  legs  to- 
gether ostentatiously. 

Why  this  tricky  manoeuvring?  Why  thoughts 
unspoken?  I  am  a  part  of  the  tender  landscape 
to  him,  and  I  realize  he  is  looking  at  me  tenderly. 
Why  not  dare  to  make  a  pure,  natural  confession? 

*' Good-bye?" 

*' Good-bye." 

I  can't  be  irritated  with  this  man;  I  haven't  the 
courage  to ;  the  weather  is  too  lovely. 

When  you  see  the  jolly  morning  frolicking  on 
the  road  in  cap-and-bells  and  look  over  where  the 
blue  curve  of  paradise  lovingly  touches  the 
brown  curve  of  the  earth,  all  you  feel  is  a  warm 
indulgence. 

It  is  too  beautiful.  The  trees  mingle  their 
branches,  the  rays  of  sunshine  mingle  their 
warmth,  the  birds  mingle  their  songs.  Down  be- 
low, the  tide  is  coming  in  with  the  rush  of  clank- 
ing chains  submerged  by  a  host  of  swift,  frisky 
little  waves.    ...  ' 

And  this  man  with  the  knavish  eyes  is  nothing 
more  than  a  black  particle  blown  by  the  wind  to 
the  end  of  this  promontory  where  a  few  clustered 
pines  taper  into  the  azure. 

It  is  too  beautiful.  All  you  can  do  is  close  your 
eyes. 

I  close  them — to  shut  out  for  a  while  the  dazzle 


BECOMING  199 

of  the  water  in  the  indigo  basin,  the  thousand 
golden  bubbles  in  its  centre,  the  thousand  silver 
teeth  biting  at  its  edge.  I  don't  want  to  think  any- 
more. All  I  want  to  feel  are  the  wami  darts 
which  pierce  my  hands  resting  on  the  grass  and 
the  peculiar  sense  of  well-being  which  takes  the 
place  of  everything  else.    .    .    . 

Have  I  really  slept  I  .  .  .  Sweetness,  the 
sweetness  of  lips  kissed  by  breezes,  a  sweetness 
complete  and  overwhelming  ...  a  delicious 
life. 

But  .  .  .  this  black  gown  .  .  .  my  dead 
...  I  have  nothing  but  my  grief,  nothing  but  my 
grief.  What  wrong  have  I  perpetrated  that  my 
grief  should  forever  sing  in  my  ears? 

Ah,  just  to  forget  .  .  .  Everj^where  the  earth 
breathing  happiness,  the  blue,  blue  rolling  waves, 
the  almond  trees  veiled  in  faery  whiteness,  every- 
where the  nuptials  of  joy. 

Grief,  where  are  you?  Everywhere  space  ter- 
ribly alive,  with  hope  in  every  color  and  death 
just  died  for  the  last  time. 


XIII 

It  happened  as  it  does  in  novels.  The  man 
suddenly  feels  the  beast  of  prey  panting  within 
him  and  yields  to  it  hotly;  the  woman  writhes 
under  the  fiery  coercion  and  gropingly  reassumes 
the  ancient  ways  that  haveicome  down  from  time 
immemorial.  .    .    . 


200  WOMAN 

Even  to  the  words  I  used.  Where  did  they 
come  from,  the  words  that  cut  him  like  a  lash, 
whipped  up  his  desire,  and  then  fell  on  his  face 
like  drops  of  ice  water? 

I  was  ashamed.  I  straightened  my  hair  and 
left  the  room.  How  was  it  nothing  warned  me 
that  I  must  be  on  my  guard  against  the  man  along- 
side of  whom  I  had  been  working  daily?  Had  I 
been  blind?  I  tried  to  extract  something  signifi- 
cant from  my  recollections    .    .    .   but  no    .    .    . 

I  am  going  to  leave  him  soon,  and  I  must  speak 
to  him. 

His  disappointment  gives  him  a  humanizing  air 
of  meekness.  It  inclines  me  to  him.  You  feel  in- 
tensely that  other  doors  are  open  and,  if  you 
wanted  to,  you  could  knock  and  gain  admittance. 

This  grim  laconic  man,  whose  ways  are  confined 
to  the  ways  of  command,  who  has  been  sterilized 
and  handcuffed  by  the  barren  power  which  money 
confers,  looks  at  me  intently  with  eyes  raised 
like  a  child's.  Women  are  wrong  in  supposing 
that  a  man  forsakes  them  when  he  renounces  his 
desire. 

I  speak  to  him  disconnected!}",  but  I  am  leading 
up  to  what  I  want  to  say.  And  he  moves  his  face 
a  little  forward  and  still  a  little  further  forward ; 
it's  as  though  he  were  drawing  closer,  step  by 
step,  step  by  step.  And  everything  external 
about  me  is  effaced  by  degrees,  my  sunshiny  hair, 
my  mouth,  my  body  present  but  concealed,  my 
entire  femininity.  An  infallible  instinct  tells  me 
this.    He  takes  in  my  voice  alone,  and  is  surprised 


BECOMING  201 

that  my  voice  talks  nothing  but  sense.  But  he  is 
going  to  know  if  it  will  talk  sense  straight  to 
the  end,  so  he  settles  himself  more  comfortably 
in  his  armchair,  lets  his  eyebrows  relax,  and  loses 
all  thought  of  himself.  His  logic  is  being  ap- 
pealed to. 

''Now  as  to  your  money  .  .  .  you  know  if  I 
married  you  it  would  not  be  for  your  love.  .  . 
Your  money?  ...  It  doesn't  count?  You're 
right,  it  doesn't  count  ...  I  might  not  have 
discovered  it  at  once.  I  might  have  said,  as  I  did 
the  other  day,  that  I  don't  love  you.  I  might  also 
have  thought  of  my  aversion  to  the  idea  of  mar- 
riage. Don't  look  like  that.  Marriage  as  it  is 
to-day  is  inmioral  and  stupid.  Don't  say  my  mar- 
riage was  perfect.  The  man  I  lost  was  a  rare 
soul.  For  ordinary  people  like  you  and  me 
marriage  brings  nothing  but  misfortune  and 
mediocrity. 

"To  marry  is  to  lie,  to  deceive  both  yourself 
and  the  other  one ;  and  when  a  man  and  a  woman 
harbor  infinite  hopes,  when  they  look  out  upon 
perpetually  changing  horizons,  when  they  have 
the  choice  of  all  the  roads  in  the  world,  and  the 
whole  of  life  spreads  out  before  them,  it  is  absurd 
to  suppose  that  they  can  ever  subject  themselves 
to  each  other. 

"You  marry,  you  pledge  your  soul,  you  prom- 
ise your  flesh.  Once  imprisoned,  you  maim  your- 
self, and  should  the  call  of  love  some  day  become 
too  strong,  what  other  alternative  than  to  lie  or 
break  the  chains?    Deceit  or  catastrophe;  there 


202  WOMAN 

is  no  choice.  Love  does  not  reconcile  the  primitive 
hatred  between  man  and  woman :  on  the  contrary, 
it  sharpens  it;  and  for  two  people  to  venture  upon 
the  impossible  enterprise  of  joining  together  two 
opposite  destinies  the  full  length  of  their  courses, 
requires  a  spirit  that  neither  you  nor  I  possess, 
a  spirit  greater  than  nature  bestows ;  it  also  takes 
the  intellect  of  a  God.    I  assure  you  it  does.  .    .    . 

"Perhaps  you  would  have  waited  till  the  very 
end  to  bring  out  your  trump  argument.  But  I 
would  have  rejected  your  seductive  words  angrily. 
They  would  not  be  to  the  point.  The  point  is,  that 
if  I  were  to  become  your  wife,  my  lot  would  be  as 
I  have  described  it. 

"You  lean  forward,  you  approve  what  I  say. 

"The  simple  fact  is,  I  couldn't  live.  There 
w^ould  be  no  use  my  trying.  I  should  not  have  the 
strength  every  day  to  witness  a  real  death  unless 
I  had  the  tiredness  and  the  sort  of  forgiveness 
that  come  from  hard  work.  I  simply  couldn't 
eat  with  appetite,  I  couldn't  sleep  in  peace. 

' '  And  in  the  morning,  if  I  did  not  know  that  this 
exultation,  this  unruly  vigor,  this  swarming  of 
scattered  inclinations  could  not  be  controlled, 
dammed  and  curbed  by  laws  .  .  .  no,  I  would 
not  dare  to  begin  to  live  again.   .    .    . 

"In  a  single  day  there  are  too  many  tempta- 
tions, in  a  single  body  too  many  feelings;  the 
inner  life,  remote  and  secondary,  must  learn 
through  humble  duty  to  subdue  itself  by  merely 
keeping  its  attention  fastened  upon  the  external 
life.    If  we  listened  to  the  goodness,  the  heaven 


BECOMING  203 

we  all  carry  round  witliin  us,  what  would,  become 
of  us  ?  I  for  my  part  would  not  be  capable  of  re- 
sisting long  ...  I  believe  you  understand  me. 
You  yourself  have  felt  what  a  help  and  support 
your  daily  routine  is.  I  never  paid  much  atten- 
tion to  you,  5^ou  were  only  one  of  the  many 
supernumeraries  on  the  stage  of  my  work,  but  I 
respected  you  because  you  made  a  part  of  my 
efforts,  and  you  too  took  great  pains  with  your 
work. 

''Every  time  I  left  you,  I  felt  gentler.  Though 
fatigued  I  felt  free  to  think  of  myself,  buoyant, 
wiser,  unloaded,  as  if  my  sins  had  been  forgiven 
me  ...  I  had  paid  my  debt;  I  owed  nothing. 

*'I  do  not  know  if  work  in  itself  is  a  good  deed. 
God  probably  never  meant  it  for  us.  Not  to  lie 
does  not  mean  to  discern  the  truth,  and  to  work  is 
not  to  find  the  truth,  but  it  is  to  have  the  right  to 
advance  toward  truth  and  put  oneself  in  a  state  of 
grace  and  health. 

"Then  remember  that  you  dared  to  offer  me 
this  miserable  fate,  me  who  in  doing  the  same 
work  lived  beside  you  as  if  under  the  same  roof, 
who  felt  imbued  with  an  austere  ardor.  But  you 
saw  nothing,  learned  nothing,  understood  nothing. 
You  horrified  me.  What  you  did  yesterday !  Good 
heavens !    You  attacked,  I  defended;  we  are  quits. 

' '  And  the  money  spread  out  glitteringly  to  gag 
me  at  night  .    .    . 

''You  must  be  just.  While  you  were  going 
through  your  day's  work  it  never  occurred  to  you 
that  I  had  my  day's  work  too,  and  my  strong  arms 


204  WOMAN 

and  the  energy  and  chastity  deep-seated  in  my 
body  .  .  .  What  was  the  value,  the  slight  impor- 
tance I  possess  as  a  person  to  you?  What  was  my 
peace  to  you? 

' '  Even  if  you  make  fun  of  the  exigencies  of  the 
soul,  do  you  think  it's  a  question  of  the  soul  alone? 
And  how  about  one's  relation  to  other  people? 
You  go  out  of  your  house  on  to  the  street,  you  see 
the  crowds  on  their  way  to  shops,  offices  and  fac- 
tories. You  have  to  look  the  working-people  in  the 
face  .  .  .  Tell  me,  how  do  the  men  and  women 
who  have  nothing  to  do  look  the  workers  in  the 
face? 

*'I  see  this  doesn't  touch  you.  You  are  with- 
drawing. To  keep  you  leaning  toward  me,  I 
myself  and  I  alone  have  to  be  the  subject  under 
discussion.  I  must  be  uncovered,  laid  naked,  by 
what  I  say.   .    .    .  " 

I  felt  a  sudden  surge  of  blood  to  my  cheeks  and 
my  lips ;  our  looks  crossed  like  swords. 

Here  I  am  with  nothing  more  to  do,  my  arms 
hanging  at  my  sides,  the  sudden  weight  of  my 
useless  words  on  my  shoulders.  The  man  follows 
my  example  and  rises. 

"I  shall  go  away,  very  far  away.  Don't  mind. 
That's  the  good  of  being  a  woman  who  works; 
you're  not  afraid.  You  may  be  at  the  mercy  of 
misfortune,  which  is  always  lurking,  but  not  at 
the  mercy  of  human  beings.  .    .    . 

*' That's  all,  I'll  go  now.   ..." 

In  the  silence  that  cuts  in  I  feel  how  this  man  is 


BECOMING  205 

^vishing  I'd  never  go — wishing  it  so  strongly  that 
for  a  moment  he  touches  love  and  a  path  is  opened 
along  which  I  could  take  a  step,  but  only  a  single 
step,  no  more. 

My  eyes  stare  into  space.  I  hear  the  mournful, 
eternal  good-bye  you  say  to  things — this  table  at 
which  I  worked,  the  afternoon  sunlight  laughing 
through  the  window,  all  the  familiar  objects, 
which  reel  slightly  from  the  separation  now  be- 
ginning, from  the  nascence  of  everything  that  is 
to  be.   .    .    . 

He  presses  my  hand.  And  I  think  of  all  the  men 
you  could  convince  if  you  wanted  to  take  the 
trouble.   .    .    . 

If  you  had  the  time.   .    .    . 

If  life  were  not  a  choice. 


XIV 

Her  head  is  nodding  and  dropping  lower  and 
lower,  her  fingers  are  gently  loosening  their  hold 
on  the  square  of  embroidery :  my  mother  has  gone 
to  sleep. 

She  comes  to  see  me  frequently  now,  and  always 
arrives  panting,  loaded  down  with  luscious  fruit 
or  bottles  of  golden  wine  ''from  your  father." 
AVhen  she  prolongs  her  stay  after  dinner  too  late 
to  return  home  that  night,  I  give  my  room  up  to 
her.  You  can  tell — poor  mother — that  her  visits 
are  undertaken  for  duty's  sake — pilgrimages  on 
which  she  never  fares  forth  without  a  preliminary 


206  WOMAN 

struggle:  ''That  child — you  can't  leave  her  all 
alone — you've  got  to  be  sorry  for  her." 

When  I  opened  the  door  for  her  this  evening,  I 
could  see  there  was  something  on  her  mind.  Her 
face  was  drawn,  and  contrary  to  her  wont  she 
kissed  me  two  or  three  times.  Was  there  going  to 
be  a  battle? 

Dinner  was  over,  but  I  still  waited. 

''Oh,  by  the  way,  my  dear,  this  idea,  of  yours — 
your  plan  to  go  away — it  isn't  serious,  is  it!  How 
about  your  position?  Are  you  really  going  to 
carry  things  to  such  extremes?  Your  obstinacy 
is  very  annoying.  What  whimsies  you  used  to 
have  when  you  were  a  young  girl,  that  faddy  no- 
tion about  earning  your  own  living  .  .  .  and 
marrying  against  our  will — yes,  against  our  will. 
.  .  .  Your  poor  husband  is  dead;  so  you've  paid, 
and  your  father  and  I  are  willing  to  let  bygones 
be  bygones.  If  you  come  and  live  with  us,  you 
know  you'll  lead  a  nice  quiet  life  and  have  every- 
thing you  need.  Your  room  will  be  kept  in  order 
for  you,  I  will  help  you  bring  up  the  boy,  you  will 
be  able  to  go  out  as  much  as  you  want  to.  We  will 
give  you  perfect  freedom.  .  .  .  And  you  mustn't 
forget  you  still  have  a  future,  you're  young. 
.  .  Why  don't  you  say  something?  Am  I  an 
enemy  ?    Am  I  not  considering  your  good  ? ' ' 

My  mother  floundered  for  more  arguments.  So 
to  avoid  idle  discussion  I  threw  my  arms  around 
her  neck. 

She  smiled  a  good  full  smile,  thinking  the  battle 
was  won  and  everything  was  settled  without  much 


BECOMING  207 

difficulty.  .  .  .  Now  that  she  was  satisfied,  her 
best  arguments  came  crowding:  she  had  known 
from  the  start  that  I  would  agree  with  her. 

*'You  haven't  only  just  yourself  to  consider, 
you  see.  When  a  woman  has  a  child,  she  doesn't 
do  any  and  everything  she  feels  like  doing." 

Now  I  had  to  explain ! 

"Mamma,  dear.   .    .    ." 

I  was  biting  my  lips  and  probably  wore  the 
same  obstinate  look  I  did  as  a  little  girl,  because 
she  pushed  me  away  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"And  what  about  us!  In  what  sort  of  a  posi- 
tion do  you  think  it  places  usf  .  .  .  Think  a 
little.  People  will  see  you  suddenly  running  away 
as  if  we  had  refused  to  take  you  in.  What  do  you 
think  we'll  be  taken  for?  And  you,  my  goodness ! 
How  will  it  look  for  a  young  woman  to  go  away 
all  by  herself,  on  an  adventure?" 

Her  face  was  purple,  her  voice  came  out  in  a 
rush,  her  arms  extended  beyond  her  shadow.  She 
was  quite  beside  herself. 

I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it,  whether  my 
worn  nerves  or  my  terror  at  always,  no  matter 
what  I  did,  seeing  a  gulf  yawn  between  us — I  burst 
into  tears. 

With  her  stubborn  patience  my  mother  often 
went  to  extremes,  but  she  could  not  resist  the 
argument  of  tears.  She  was  taken  aback.  I  had 
conquered.  She  put  her  arms  round  me  in  a  large, 
warm,  cradling  embrace,  planted  short  little  kisses 
all  over  my  hair,  comforted  me  in  my  distress. 
"Come,  dear,  don't  cry,  don't  cry." 


208  WOMAN 

I  made  a  tremendous  effort  to  shake  off  a  fright- 
ful impression.  If  I  had  had  to  pay  with  my  life 
to  get  rid  of  it,  I  would  have  paid  with  my  life. 
But  drop  by  drop  the  poison  filtered  into  my  heart 
and  changed  it  into  a  bitter  heart  which  seemed 
unlike  my  own. 

With  all  the  appearance  of  humility  in  her 
drooping  shoulders  and  bowed  head,  armed  with 
the  tricky  sweetness  of  a  person  accustomed  to 
yielding,  my  mother  drew  our  chairs  closer  to- 
gether and  tried  to  console  me  at  any  price  by 
talking  of  something  else.  She  held  out  her 
needlework. 

''A  tray-cover.  I  noticed  you  haven't  got 
one.  .  .  .  Eows  of  hemstitching  with  a  square 
of  filet  in  the  centre.    Do  you  like  it?" 

I  dabbed  my  eyes,  forced  a  smile,  and  leaned 
over  to  watch  her  draw  the  threads.  ''Wonder- 
ful," I  said,  ''marvellously  fine,  and  such  tedious 
work."  I  forced  myself  to  fill  up  the  gaps  in  the 
conversation. 

The  evening  flagged  slowly  and  gently.  The 
oil  in  the  lamp  was  giving  out.  A  drowse  gradu- 
ally laid  itself  upon  the  delicate  maternal  face; 
under  the  scant  light  beginning  to  smell  of  smoke, 
it  looked  almost  like  a  mummy's. 

She  is  asleep  now. 

My  imagination  is  free ;  the  frightful  impression 
carries  me  far  back  to  a  time  shrouded  in  dimness 
which  resembles  my  childhood  days. 


BECOMING  209 

A  mere  baby  still.  At  night  caressing  hand? 
tucked  me  in  bed.  I  held  up  my  forehead  for  the 
kisses  of  a  fairy.   .    .    . 

A  little  girl  who  ran  and  fell  and  hurt  her  fore- 
head and  palms  and  flew  with  her  troubles  to  the 
living  Providence.  "Did  you  hurt  yourself  ?  .  .  . 
Ah,  you're  bleeding!"  I  felt  the  thrill  of  the 
miraculous  wound  because  she  caught  me  in  her 
arms  and  pressed  my  undeserved  suffering  to  her 
heart.  Then  she  tended  me,  oh,  so  gently.  When 
she  finished,  I  secretly  regretted  that  the  hurt 
was  assuaged  and  I  had  no  more  blood  to  offer, 
red  flowing  blood,  in  exchange  for  the  doting 
tenderness  that  it  brought  raining  dow^n  upon  me. 

A  long  illness.  A  veritable  angel  hovering  all 
the  time.  Clouds  in  my  room,  clouds  on  my  bed, 
and  a  constant  buzzing  in  my  ears.  "When  the 
angel  moved,  a  current  of  freshness  reached  me, 
a  magnificent  hand  raised  the  head  which  weighed 
like  a  ball  of  fire,  and  the  heavenly  voice  said  in 
the  tone  of  ordinary  mothers:  "Drink,  darling!" 

When  my  memory  brings  me  up  to  the  moments 
of  effort,  the  real  moments  which  count,  I  find  my- 
self an  orphan. 

No,  you  were  not  there,  mother,  when  my  inner 
life  developed,  nor  the  first  morning  when  I  saw 
clearly,  nor  when  my  love  came.  You  were  never 
with  me  at  any  time  when  my  good  will  acted, 
never,  never.  It  was  you  who  stayed  behind  and 
left  me.  I  went  on  my  way.  Should  I  have 
stopped  to  stay  behind  with  you? 


210  WOMAN 

You  idolized  my  littleness,  my  tears,  my  naughti- 
nesses. You  covered  them  all  up,  I  know.  But 
one  can't  keep  on  being  ill,  or  naughty,  or  a  little 
tdt. 

You  are  the  mother,  you  pardon  everything. 
When  father  scolded  us,  you  came  with  a  kiss  to 
absolve  us  in  secret,  and  sometimes,  gritting  your 
teeth  and  darting  the  defiance  of  a  she-wolf  from 
your  eyes,  you'd  say:  *'I  would  forgive  you  all 
your  faults.  I  would  say  you  are  right  when  you 
are  wrong." 

But  see  here,  mother,  this  is  what  I  have  done : 
will  you  forgive  me  this : 

I  have  invoked  the  truth,  I  have  taken  pains,  I 
have  climbed  up,  I  have  striven,  I  have  had  radi- 
ant moments,  days  of  flowering,  and  happiness 
was  the  same  age  as  myself.  Mother,  have  you 
forgiven  me  this? 

I  am  not  better-hearted  than  you,  but  it  is  the 
life  about  me  which  demands  that  one  do  more, 
love  more.  This  is  what  differentiates  and  actu- 
ally divides  us. 

Everything  that  sings  and  invites  one  out  into 
the  good  old  world,  the  "out-of-doors,"  seems 
pernicious  to  you.  Wliat  you  would  have  wanted 
was  to  stand  barring  the  door  with  your  arms 
crossed  and  refuse  me  the  fresh  air.  You  your- 
self avaricious  but  destitute  would  have  liked  me 
to  salute  your  avarice  and  praise  your  destitution. 
"Will  you  set  yourself  up  in  judgment  over  your 
father  and  mother?" 

Mother,  when  children  grow  up,  their  eyes  open. 


BECOMING  211 

.  .  .  And  if  my  son  sees  me  fallen  lower  than  his 
love,  lower  than  my  own  love,  let  him  accuse  and 
condemn  me. 

No,  it  will  not  always  be  the  same  thing,  as  you 
say,  for  that  depends  neither  upon  him  nor  you, 
but  only  upon  me.  You  do  not  know,  you  do  not 
know! 

With  its  expiring  breath  the  lamp  sends  out  a 
blackish,  leaping  light,  which  splashes  shadows  on 
the  pendulous  surroundings. 

I  had  never  noticed  the  puffiness  of  her  lids,  nor 
the  sharpness  of  her  cheekbones,  nor  the  drooping 
corners  of  her  tender  mouth,  nor  the-  flatness  and 
thinness  of  her  hair,  which  used  to  be  full  and 
flaming  as  my  own.  Never  before  had  I  remarked 
the  tragic  similarity  between  the  dead  and  the 
sleeping.  And  I  did  not  know  that  immutable 
Truth  sometimes  has  the  ring  of  a  curse  and 
makes  you  cry,  and  yet  is  Truth. 

The  scissors  gliding  to  the  floor  awakened  her 
with  a  start.    "What,  still  crying?" 

She  gave  the  lamp  a  shake  to  force  a  bit  of 
light  and  said  in  her  resigned  tone,  instinctively 
but  unconsciously  touching  my  horrible  thought: 
"Wipe  your  eyes,  dear  .  .  .  the  dead  have  to  be 
forgotten.  .    .    .'* 


212  WOMAN 


XV 


The  storm  raked  the  streets  and  stunned  the 
houses.  .  .  .  All  night  long  it  raged;  and 
once  the  thunder  crashed  so  close  by  that  I  jumped 
out  of  bed  terror-stricken  to  make  sure  the  shut- 
ters were  closed. 

The  morning  dawned  sullen,  dragging  lazy, 
gray  wings  on  the  earth  and  taking  flight  only  at 
the  furious  onslaught  of  the  wind. 

To  comb  my  hair  I  seated  myself  close  to  the 
window  with  my  face  to  the  mirror  on  the  wall. 

Outside,  the  downpour  and  incessant  sharp 
rattle,  the  blue-lacquered  roofs,  the  wan  drift  of 
the  clouds.  In  front  of  me,  an  image  which  had 
my  name. 

The  more  eager  a  woman  is  to  please,  the  less 
she  sees  herself  in  the  mirror.  Wliat  she  sees  is 
the  idea  others  have  of  her,  a  sort  of  consciousness 
of  her  power,  the  irrepressible  desire  to  attract. 

When  I  sat  down  before  the  glass  just  now,  I 
must  have  seen  myself;  suddenly  I  felt  afraid. 

I  had  raised  the  tumble  of  ringlets  from  my 
forehead  and  saw  a  gleam — my  first  white  hair. 
Then  I  scanned  my  face  closely,  pitilessly.  At 
the  outer  corners  of  my  eyes  a  place  was  prepar- 
ing for  a  fine  meshwork  which  would  close  up 
when  I  laughed. 

A  mad  need  fell  upon  me — to  see  myself  again 
and  again.  Around  each  corner  of  my  mouth  an 
invisible  line  had  chosen  its  pathway ;  the  perfect 


BECOMING  213 

oval  of  my  face  slipped  slightly  from  its  frame ; 
under  the  chin  there  was  an  imperceptible  mass 
which  would  never  yield  to  any  amount  of 
massage. 

I  w^anted  to  run  away,  I  wanted  to  look,  I 
wanted.  ...  I  tell  you  my  heart  was  leaping 
from  between  my  ribs,  so  that  you  could  have 
taken  it  in  your  hand. 

How  many  years  are  there  left?  .  .  .  Ten 
years!  .  .  .  Eight  years?  .  .  .  Perhaps  only 
six  in  which  to  continue  to  be  the  very  same 
woman  I  am. 

A  day  will  come  immersed  in  the  other  days, 
similar  to  the  other  days,  when  this  woman  will  be 
dead  while  I  shall  live. 

I  try  to  question  space.  I  turn  in  every  direc- 
tion. The  storm  has  increased.  The  rain  is  com- 
ing down  in  sheets  and  rebounding  in  mist.  The 
polished  pavements  are  cracked  by  quivering  little 
ripples.  The  tempest  drives  the  people  ahead 
like  leaves. 

"VNTience  this  dread  which  blows  like  a  typhoon 
from  the  future,  breathing  on  my  youth  and 
freezing  my  blood?  Whence  these  two  words 
which  gnaw  at  my  breast  like  a  canker?  Six 
years.   .    .    . 

No,  no,  it  is  impossible.  I  believe  in  the  deluge, 
in  the  thunder,  in  misfortune,  in  oblivion.  Not  in 
that.  Why  should  this  face  of  mine  with  its 
curves,  its  marble  purity  and  its  color  change? 
"VVhy?  I  have  always  had  a  fair  amount  of  cour- 
age, I  have  always  done  what  I  had  to  do,  but 


214  WOMAN 

this  renunciation,  this  hideous  acquiescence.  I 
haven't  got  the  courage  for  that,  no,  I  haven't. 

I  am  prepared  to  accept  death.  If  necessary, 
I  will  stretch  my  hands  out  to  it.  Let  the  one 
moment  of  my  life  which  wipes  out  the  other 
moments  flow  into  nothingness.  Take,  strike,  I 
am  prepared.   .    .    . 

But  that  "six  years,  no  more,"  should  be  writ- 
ten on  my  face,  that  people  should  see  my  face  and 
I  should  hold  it  up  smilingly  like  a  ruthless  gift  to 
those  I  love,  that  I  should  bear  the  signs  upon  me 
of  dull  decay,  wrinkles,  falling  hair,  withered 
cheeks,  and  dimmed  eyes.  .  .  .  What  if  I 
refuse?   .    .    . 

I  could  no  longer  bear  to  look  into  the  mirror 
and  see  what  was  going  to  be.  I  held  my  face  to 
the  pane  on  which  a  dismal  music  was  drumming. 

I  have  had  deep  feelings  as  plentiful  and  com- 
ing as  thick  and  fast  as  these  drops  of  rain;  some 
feelings  have  been  vaster  than  the  soul  itself; 
but  the  only  feeling  truly  like  woman,  the  only 
feeling  essentially  woman,  which  weds  her  soul 
while  wedding*  her  body,  is  the  immense  desire  to 
be  beautiful.  I  have  lived  through  my  love  of 
others,  I  love  my  child  as  though  I  were  still  carry- 
ing it,  yet  all  the  time,  from  waking  up  in  the 
morning  until  going  to  bed  at  night,  year  in  and 
year  out,  from  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  I 
was  cloaked  and  upheld  by  a  will  to  please. 

I  was  not  more  beautiful  than  other  women, 
but  I  wanted  to  be.    In  spite  of  me  and  in  spite 


BECOMING  215 

of  themselves,  the  men  hovered  about  me,  lavish 
of  their  glances.  I  moved  like  a  ray  of  joy,  life 
was  a  festival  redder  than  war;  I  expressed  my- 
self without  saying  a  word,  all  hearts  were  ready, 
they  gave  me  more  love  than  I  asked  for  and 
almost  as  much  as  I  needed. 

That  was  the  air  I  breathed  and  had  to  breathe. 
Is  it  good,  is  it  bad?  It  is  an  instinct  which  keeps 
turning  rapidly  round  and  round  in  you.  If  you 
were  to  pull  it  up,  it  would  sprout  again. 

Then  how  can  it  be  that  some  day,  though  I 
shall  have  done  nothing  to  bring  it  on,  the  terri- 
tory of  this  indestructible  instinct  will  be  clouded 
over  and  made  barren  forever  after?  How  can 
it  be  that  I  shall  no  longer  please  if  I  still  want  to 
please? 

The  rain  is  beating  upon  the  streaked  window- 
pane  and  glides  down  against  my  cheeks  in  long 
transparent  tears.  Every  chink  in  the  room  is 
an  inlet  for  the  wind.  Around  me  there  is  a  wail- 
ing as  if  drawn  from  a  sad,  dreary  bowstring. 

Is  it  the  woman  of  the  mirror  ?  Is  it  the  woman 
that  I  am?  You  can't  tell  which  woman  is  speak- 
ing to  the  other  woman.   .    .    . 

^'So  you're  of  the  sort  to  let  yourself  be  dis- 
heartened? 

''You  thought  you  had  said  all  the  good-byes 
there  are  to  say  in  life.  There  is  one  left,  even 
more  awful  than  the  others.  You  have  dragged 
yourself  over  mouldering  graves,  yet  when  you 
arose  you  found  something  to  keep  you  alive.    But 


2ie  WOMAN 

as  yet  you  are  unworthy  of  this  last  good-bye.  To 
survive  it,  you  need  a  grandeur  you  don't  possess, 
a  more  solid  strength  than  the  furtive  power 
you're  proud  of.  You  believed  you  were  pure,  and 
you  were  quite  sure  you  lived  in  your  entirety. 
Lookl  ..." 

How  ashamed  I  am,  0  God.  What  a  stranger 
the  woman  opposite  me  is.  .   .   . 

At  the  outset  I  said  to  the  husband  I  chose:  *'I 
shall  cherish  your  happiness  as  much  as  I  cherish 
my  love  for  you ;  and  if  ever  your  happiness  as- 
sumes the  features  of  another  woman,  that  woman 
shall  be  dear  to  me." 

When  another  woman  approached,  I  knitted  my 
brows  and  formed  a  secret  vow  to  blacken  her  in 
his  eyes. 

He  loved  me  as  you  love  your  life,  as  you  sing, 
as  you  kiss.  And  I  reproached  him  for  not  lean- 
ing over  close  enough  and  telling  me  tender  things 
over  and  over  again  every  day.  I  had  plighted 
my  troth ;  in  order  not  to  take  it  back,  I  needed 
actions,  words ;  to  keep  it,  I  had  to  put  his  heart 
to  the  proof. 

When  I  came  to  know  another  love,  my  instinct 
could  not  rise  to  the  height  of  my  idea.  I  did  not 
know  how  to  bring  the  two  men  together,  nor  did 
I  know  how  to  make  the  woman  who  loved  him 
receive  the  truth. 

And  I  allowed  useless  people,  useless  existences 


BECOMING  217 

to  come  to  me.  I  saw  them  fighting  aronnd  me  like 
quarrelsome,  chattering  sparrows  around  a  tree; 
I  saw  them  pillage  and  carry  away  in  their  beaks 
the  ripe  fruit  of  my  days.  To  know  how  to  live 
is  to  know  how  to  choose.    I  did  not  know. 

Everywhere  shame.  Everywhere  in  the  past, 
the  hell  of  what  I  have  lost. 

These  hands  capable  of  everything  have  done 
almost  nothing.  I  contented  myself  with  little 
and  believed  in  humility. 

I  silenced  nearly  every  appeal  within  me.  I  let 
regard  for  others  govern  and  restrain  me.  I  still 
feel  how  the  imperious  look  of  an  unforgettable 
passerby  once  tore  me;  the  rude  superior  depre- 
cation in  that  look  was  like  a  cry  rising  above  the 
night.  Several  indifferent  persons  were  about  me, 
my  spirit  fixed  upon  them.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
last  of  my  life  which  a  stranger  mercilessly  car- 
ried off  in  the  depths  of  his  being.    I  let  him  pass. 

I  believed  myself  beautiful.  Beauty  is  a  prom- 
ise which  no  woman  has  ever  kept.  I  have  seen 
my  features  in  the  glass,  but  I  have  not  looked 
for  the  mission  to  which  I  was  appointed.  What 
human  being  ever  perceives  that  he  wears  a  dis- 
tinctive badge? 

The  wind  redoubles  in  strength  and  howls  in 
the  face  of  the  sky.  The  rain-spout  near  the  win- 
dow is  choking,  the  drops  rap-tap-tap  on  the  pane : 
"What  have  you  done!    What  have  you  done?" 


218  WOMAN 

Lord,  I  am  looking  myself  in  the  face.  While 
waiting  for  the  light  to  appear  and  the  clouds  to 
scatter,  for  the  damp  air  to  shine  between  the 
drops  of  sunlight,  for  the  good  genius  who  must 
teach  us  to  grow  old,  for  the  inaccessible  perfec- 
tion for  which  I  was  built,  I  look  and  look  at 
myself.  .    .    . 

I  went  to  the  window  to  watch  the  storm  and 
smoothe  my  hair.  Leaning  toward  the  mirror  it 
was  God  I  found. 

God  is  there,  I  see  Him  approaching  when  I 
approach  and  smiling  when  I  smile,  God  who  car- 
ries me  and  whom  I  carry,  God  palpitating  with 
faith,  God  who  lowers  His  head.  .   .   . 

I  believe  in  myself. 

XVI 

I  cannot  sleep. 

There's  no  good-bye  to  say,  it  is  late,  everything 
is  ready,  and  yet  I  am  stifling  in  this  empty  room, 
which  lives  only  through  my  sleeping  son  and  me. 

But  he  sleeps.  .    .    . 

I  hardly  recognize  him  when  he  sleeps,  and  I 
have  to  go  close  to  him.  He  fell  asleep  a  moment 
ago  and  is  lying  exactly  the  way  I  placed  him, 
with  his  arm  outstretched.  Is  there  anything 
tenderer  and  frailer  to  behold  than  this  little 
rounded  face  with  its  fine  veins  and  pearly  curves? 
Beneath  his  sleep  and  the  warmth  of  his  cheeks, 
life  is  working,  and  what  a  hurry  it  is  in  1 


BECOMING  219 

I  lean  down  closer,  almost  tonching  the  fine 
down  of  gold  on  his  forehead,  his  velvety  warmth, 
his  scarcely  perceptible  breath.  As  always,  I  feel 
both  terrified  and  transported  by  this  immense 
littleness,  and  consumed  by  a  longing  to  put  my 
lips  to  him.  ...  I  draw  back:  I  must  not  wake 
him  up. 

I  move  away  from  the  crib.  The  will  to  ques- 
tion the  present  which  is  passing  takes  a  stronger 
hold  of  me  this  evening  than  usual. 

No,  it  is  not  to  you  I  turn,  my  child. 

The  best  in  me,  the  true,  God,  and  my  soul  do 
not  concern  you. 

Perhaps  I  am  too  hasty  in  saying  this.  Perhaps 
I  have  paid  too  much  attention  to  the  gulf  between 
my  generation  and  the  old  blind  generation. 
Probably  the  gulf  between  your  generation  and 
mine  is  not  so  deep,  but  when  I  look  carefully  I 
do  not  find  that  you  are  the  profound  motive. 

Nothing  holds  out  the  promise  that  in  the  future 
we  can  really  give  each  other  a  single  day.  When 
I  look  at  you,  I  am  astonished  that  I  gave  you  life 
— it  is  such  a  miracle  to  have  caused  a  creature  to 
live.  I  am  at  the  verge  of  the  space  separating  us. 
I  do  not  find  you  there.  I  go  my  way,  you  go 
your  opposite  way,  and  though  there  be  nothing 
impossible  in  the  world,  our  mutual  understanding 
is  impossible.    I  shall  never  attain  to  your  height. 

You  were  born  to  contradict,  since  you  must 
surpass,  the  palpitating  question  that  I  am,  my 
acts,  their  purpose.    You,  whom  I  carried  in  my 


220  WOMAN 

womb  nine  months,  will  never  be  anything  but 
a  stranger  in  my  wet  eyes  and  to  the  kisses  of  my 
lips,  a  stranger  who  departs  with  my  blood  in  his 
veins. 

You  have  come.  But  I  did  not  sink  into  the  fatal 
pit  that  engulfs  mothers,  the  inevitable  snare. 
It's  so  hard  to  resist  the  weak  little  thing  which 
can't  talk.  How  can  you  be  expected  to  resist? 
A  woman  eclipses  herself  for  the  sake  of  the  child 
she  brings  into  the  world,  and  at  the  first  cry,  the 
mother  is  in  danger.  It  is  the  mother  we  should 
try  to  save.  There's  no  need  to  be  afraid  that  the 
mother-instinct  will  cool  off.  The  earth  will  cool 
off  sooner! 

To  have  children.  Love  is  born  with  them,  but 
love  is  not  enough.  And  to  try  with  all  your 
might  to  fulfill  your  own  destiny.  And  mis- 
fortune if  the  children  fall  behind  I 

Sleep,  my  little  one.  .    .    . 

I  have  opened  the  window;  the  night  breathes 
upon  my  face.  In  the  wide  outdoors,  where  the 
darkness  is  naked  and  the  freshness  is  blue,  the 
expanse  opens  out  like  a  river.  Below,  the  clus- 
tered houses — a  sombre  vegetation,  a  confused, 
winking  mass,  a  starry  profundity,  vast  and 
chaotic,  with  no  boundary  lines  between  city  and 
sky. 

My  eyes  look  tranquilly  upon  the  black  future 
piled  up  at  my  feet.  My  eyes  are  no  longer  rest- 
less, because  now  I  know  for  all  time  what  the 
future  holds.    I  know  that  soon  I  shall  be  tired 


BECOMING.  221 

and  go  to  sleep,  and  when  I  wake  np  in  the  white 
daylight  my  son  will  put  his  arms  round  my  neck 
so  prettily.  I  will  smile,  then  the  time  for  parting 
will  come.  The  hidden  days  contain  the  unknown. 
.    .    .  But  forever  and  ever  it  will  be  suffering. 

The  future  is  not  a  question  you  ask;  it  is  the 
suffering  that  awaits  you.  Suffering  is  the  an- 
swer to  every  question,  and  every  instant  claws 
the  flesh.  If  you  listen  intently,  you  will  hear 
that  the  echo  of  everything  is  a  sob. 

It  is  suffering.  Suffering  does  not  find  a  vent, 
it  does,  not  bleed  in  any  cry,  it  clings  to  you,  and 
nothing  reveals  it  because  it  is  omnipresent,  so 
present  and  so  plain  that  you  can't  look  for  or 
find  it.  It  is  not  the  tears  choking  your  throat, 
nor  the  groan  at  night,  nor  the  knell  of  a  parting 
footstep,  nor  the  mourning  which  stifles  you,  nor 
the  heart  in  your  breast,  for  that  would  be  too 
little.  When  suffering  begins  with  exuberant  sun- 
shine and  mornings  like  a  flourish  of  trumpets,  it 
is  even  more  terrible  because  it  is  further  away. 
.  .  .  Suffering  is  more.  It  is  unlike  anything 
else.  It  is  regular,  steady  as  the  breath,  amazing, 
tolerable,  and  it  is  not  the  last  word  you  say,  it  is 
also  the  first  word ;  it  follows  its  mortal,  monoton- 
ous course,  and  you  realize  it  has  no  name :  to  liv6 
is  to  suffer. 

Is  it  human  misery?  No,  human  suffering. 
Stammering  nights,  groping  footsteps.  Whither 
and  why?  No,  there's  no  time  to  lose,  you  jump 
up  and  go,  go,  because  you  haven't  suffered 
enough  yet.    Look. 


222  WOMAN 

"When  I  leave  tomorrow  with  my  suffering  in 
my  breast  I  shall  go  in  advance  of  suffering.  I 
shall  not  hesitate  in  the  doorway.  Looking  back 
into  the  room  I  shall  not  say  what  I  have  often 
said:  ''You  are  a  bit  of  myself,  good-bye.  Since 
my  eyes  will  no  longer  be  here  to  see  you,  give 
them  a  picture  of  yourself  to  take  along. ' ' 

Suffering  is  self-sufficient.  You  don't  associate 
things  with  it.  I  shall  have  my  back  turned,  my 
body  will  be  impatient  to  lean  forward.  I  no 
longer  care  for  memories. 

Not  one.  Not  even  the  memory  of  you,  my  two 
dead  lovers.  Other  dead  are  further  on,  where  I 
am  going,  or  rather,  other  suffering.  And  your 
suffering  is  over  because  you  are  dead. 

The  pictures  I  have  of  you  rise  less  and  less 
frequently  in  my  memory.  How  I  cherished  them 
at  first!  Some  especially.  .  .  .  That  little  sta- 
tion-platform where  we  met  .  .  .  the  transpa- 
rent morning  flew  ahead  of  your  footsteps,  the 
spring  was  intoxicated,  I  ran  into  your  out- 
stretched arms.  .  .  .  And  the  path  where  I 
cried,  the  sunset  sinking  away  between  the 
branches,  my  head  grazing  your  shoulder  like  a 
fruit  falling  from  the  tree.  .   .    .  And  another. 

.    .    .  And  another.   .    .    . 

It  is  over.  I  carry  you  differently.  Some  of 
your  ways,  which  I  acquired,  stick  to  me  from 
habit.  My  voice  often  has  your  inflection,  and 
when  I  am  animated  I  feel  I  have  made  some  of 
your  ideas  my  own.    K  I  don't  remember  you  so 


BECOMING  223 

clearly,  it  is  because  I  live  you  and  the  legacy  you 
left  me  rises  and  falls  with  my  breathing. 

In  my  fierce  survival  I  have  preserved  only 
what  is  of  use  to  me.  All  the  rest  has  decomposed ; 
it  is  nothing  to  me  any  more.  We  should  break 
away  from  this  burden  of  the  dead.  The  dead  are 
the  living  who  have  abandoned  us,  and  sooner  or 
later,  whether  we  wish  to  or  not,  we  forget  them. 

I  loved  my  dead  dearly,  so  dearly  that  it  seemed 
to  me  my  being  inclined  towards  them  the  moment 
they  appeared — so  dearly  that  because  of  them, 
who  have  gone,  love  has  remained. 

Love  proclaims  its  law.  You  must  show  your 
love,  it  cries. 

Somewhere  in  the  world  tonight  there  are  faces 
lying  dormant  for  me,  persons  to  whom  I  have 
things  to  say.  I  am  waiting  for  them,  I  stretch 
my  arms  out  to  them,  I  know  they  will  come  be- 
cause of  my  need  for  embraces,  a  desire  for 
caresses,  so  strong  tonight  that  I  jump  up  with  a 
start.  It  is  as  if  half  of  my  body  were  missing. 
I  see  myself  deserted  and  frightfully  widowed, 
and  my  mouth  quivers  with  hunger  and  thirst  for 
another  mouth. 

I  know  a  man  is  on  the  way.  I  shall  recognize 
him.  I  shall  have  the  somewhat  bitter  audacity 
you  must  have  in  order  to  confess  yourself  the 
inmiense  thing  you  are.  I  shall  stir  him,  I  shall 
do  everything ;  you  can  go  the  full  lengths  of  the 
sublime  that  dwells  within  you. 

As  soon  as  he  will  rise  above  the  horizon  he 


224  WOMAN 

will  realize  from  my  mere  expression  that  I  have 
long  lost  the  trick  of  lying. 

And  when  I  read  the  first  glance  he  gives  me, 
when  desire  bewilders  him  a  little  and  forces  him 
back  within  himself,  I  shall  be  happy  to  be  beauti- 
ful. Beneath  his  eyes  my  sound  healthy  self  will 
brace  up  again,  my  inexhaustible  twenty-seven 
years,  my  rounded  limbs,  everything  which  goes 
slightly  to  pieces  when  love  is  absent.  Here  is  the 
offering,  blond,  slim,  laughing,  which  I  already 
present  to  you.  .  .  .  He  will  perceive  uncompre- 
hendingly  that  if  I  am  a  little  more  beautiful  than 
myself,  it  is  because  by  virtue  of  loving  one  comes 
to  resemble  the  love  one  feels. 

When  he  will  have  looked  at  me  long,  I  will  ex- 
plain what  each  of  my  features  means;  I  will 
speak.  Because  silence  is  beautiful  after  the  last 
words,  and  it  is  the  woman  who  has  the  most  to 
say. 

I  may  have  a  stronger  expression  than  other 
women,  perhaps  a  slightly  more  taciturn  expres- 
sion, too.  My  solitude  would  account  for  this. 
Women  are  not  sufficiently  alive  to  the  fact  that 
one  should  live  alone,  depart  alone,  and  return 
alone,  and  that  there  is  no  one  outside  one's  self. 
No  one.  In  going  to  meet  love  again,  I  who  have 
been  twice  widowed  and  have  my  child  to  make 
me  feel  more  isolated,  shall  find  nothing  but  an- 
other solitude.  To  be  sure,  there  will  be  kisses, 
meetings,  a  symphony  of  voices.  Yet  in  spite 
of  everything  to  know  you're  alone,  all  the 
time.  .   .   . 


BECOMING  225 

All  the  time.  .  .  . 

If  I  had  reached  this  secure  kingdom  through 
my  own  power  I  should  be  very  proud.  But  I 
don't  deserve  the  credit.  My  dead  lovers  gave  me 
this  awful  superhuman  gift.  For  there  comes  a 
moment  when  you  have  taken  from  some  one  else 
everything  there  was  to  be  taken.  Without  his 
noticing  he  becomes  useless,  he  must  disappear. 
Who  resigns  himself  to  this? 

My  lovers  bestowed  upon  me  the  love  I  was 
capable  of,  attentive  and  complete,  they  bestowed 
upon  me  the  intelligence  of  my  blood,  my  tears 
and  my  words.  .  .  .And  then  they  gave  me  up. 
They  performed  this  supreme  deed. 

And  now  when  enlarged  by  love  I  desire)  love 
again,  I  give  it  its  place.  Love  is  not  the  essential 
thing.  I  have  of  ten  said :  ''Life,  my  life."  The 
phrase  has  assumed  the  shape  of  my  lips  because 
it  says  the  essential  thing.  Love,  after  all  is 
nothing  but  the  most  beautiful  moment. 

I  summon  all  the  moments  of  my  life.  Even  the 
least  thriUing  cling  just  as  deeply  by  roots  of  flesh. 

Life  wishes  to  become  what  it  never  has  been; 
It  is  ready,  it  is  empty.  .  .  .  Until  tonight 
human  words  filled  it  saying : 

"Nothing  changes  here  below;  nothing  can  pos- 
sibly change :  love  goes  on  from  age  to  age,  death 
was  and  will  be,  life  is  forever  the  same,  and  man 
is  always  man."  To  express  this  the  word  "eter- 
nal" has  been  invented. 

I  do  not  know.  I  came,  I,  a  woman,  and  like 
every  other  creature,  I  too  began  by  loving.    Life 


22e  WOMAN 

was  not  the  same,  I  swear  it  was  not  the  same. 
Life  had  a  different  taste,  I  shouldered  it  differ- 
ently, and  my  death,  while  resembling  other 
deaths,  does  not  exist  by  the  same  idea. 

I  am ;  everything  is  changed. 

And  even  if  I  had  never  lived,  other  women  are 
ready  to  change  the  earth.  You  can't  tell  yet  what 
the  women  of  my  generation  are  capable  of.  They 
themselves  don't  know  altogether. 

The  memory  of  what  they  have  always  been 
told  weighs  upon  them.  Man  is  a  fierce,  greedy 
lover.  With  bloodshot  eyes  like  a  blind  man,  he 
has  fallen  upon  the  feverish  couch  where  lies 
the  vanquished  enemy.  He  has  brought  his  boil- 
ing sap,  and  between  his  clasped  arms  a  great 
tenderness.  When  he  has  risen  from  the  couch, 
he  has  been  sad,  his  eyes  have  been  wasted,  his 
tenderness  worn  out.  And  he  has  said:  "This  is 
woman. ' ' 

This  has  lasted  long.  I  do  not  know  if  there 
hasn't  been  some  reason  for  it.  I  simply  say  I 
live.  I  am  honest,  exact,  I  have  muscles  of  steel, 
I  like  people  to  say  what  is,  I  am  loyal,  willing, 
I  earn  my  living,  and  I  am  inured  to  suffering. 
What  truth  does  one  fail  to  recognize  when  it 
shows  its  facef 

I  think.    I  want.    I  know. 

It  has  taken  me  a  long  time  to  take  in  the  hum- 
ble things  I  now  know.  I  commenced  with  very 
little ;  my  youth  passed  in  chaos,  I  had  to  suffer 
very  much.  So  it  is  not  chance,  random  truths 
that  I  follow.    I  do  not  set  limits  to  them.    Even 


BECOMING  227 

my  death  will  not  disprove  them.  Thus,  a  few 
scattered  framents  hover.  I  snatched  and  caught 
them  in  moments  of  alert  intelligence,  I  held  them 
fast  with  my  willing  heart,  I  gripped  them  be- 
tween clenched  teeth  to  keep  from  losing  them. 

The  wind  rises  on  the  right.  Is  it  not  the  wind 
that  has  extinguished  those  dots  of  gold,  the 
houses,  without  deepening  the  dark  of  the  town? 

I  see  the  wind,  it  is  blowing  near.  And  here, 
immobile,  upright  in  my  heavy  rectitude,  I  share 
with  the  wind  the  moments  which  are  driving  it 
on.    One  by  one.    I  fly  with  them,  one  by  one. 

I  go  where  they  are  going,  even  elsewhere,  and 
my  death  perhaps  is  far  from  reaching  its  limits. 
It  has  been  on  the  way  a  long  time,  it  will  stop 
when  I  am  completely  tired  out,  when  there  will 
be  nothing  more  for  me  to  do,  when  my  breath 
will  not  be  an  indispensable  breath.  Then  that 
will  be  all.  They  say  it  is  hard  to  die.  Does  that 
mean  that  the  world  holds  something  more  tragic 
than  life? 

The  wind  has  swollen  the  whole  sky.  The  sky 
is  ready  to  drop  down  from  on  high — ah,  let  the 
sky  fall !  The  wind  pins  itself  to  my  face.  It  has 
become  so  violent  that  I  cross  my  arms  on  my 
breast  to  brave  it.  The  infinite  future,  as  though 
it  too  were  swollen,  approaches  the  houses. 

How  can  I  tell  what  the  future  holds  ?  No  use 
searching  the  violet  depths  of  the  horizon  or 
breathing  in  the  whole  of  the  sky.  The  times  to 
come  are  beyond  my  reach.    They  give  no  sign. 


228  WOMAN 

There,  below,  all  I  see  is  my  own  existence.  But 
how  I  see  it!  Flashing,  assiduous,  full  of  free 
spaces,  brooding,  crimson  in  my  veins,  paling 
slightly  at  the  horizon,  departing  in  the  starless 
wind,  and  returning  in  haste  to  my  limbs. 

The  woof  of  the  night  has  changed  color  again. 

Can  it  be  that  what  I  am  is  a  promise  of  some- 
thing that  should  be  ? 

The  wind  blows  stronger. 

No,  it  is  not  for  nothing  that  tonight  I  am  draw- 
ing a  deeper  breath  than  on  all  other  nights,  a 
breath  stronger  than  my  strength,  rising  up  over 
my  life. 

Night  passes,  as  pure  as  a  summoning  voice. 

Then  it  must  be.  Lord,  that  soon,  perhaps  at 
dawn,  you  must  go  further  than  your  journey  and, 
in  flashes  of  your  being,  reach  heights  higher  than 
everything  you  have  said,  live  to  the  last  drop  of 
your  blood,  live  more  than  life  ? 

Here  I  am. 


l,tA^^ 


THE  END 


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